Submitting to my Ex Uncle-Chapter 258

Music Recommendation: Glimpse Of Us by Joji.

.....

The cemetery was quiet that afternoon. It was too quiet. Every breath sounded like a confession.

Ronan stood in front of the headstone, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black coat. The wind dragged through the grass, bending the dry blades just enough to sound like whispers. Somewhere behind him, a church bell tolled the hour, low and distant.

He hadn’t been here since the funeral. Not once.

The grave looked the same as that day. The marble headstone was clean, white as bone, with the engraved name standing out sharp against it.

LANDON RONAN CROSS.

Beloved Son.

Gone Too Soon.

Ronan’s throat burned at the words. Beloved. That one word mocked him most.

He crouched down slowly, his knees stiff from the cold, and placed the small bouquet of lilies he’d brought. He brought flowers not because Landon ever liked flowers, but because he didn’t know what else to bring a boy who never got to grow up.

He stared at the name for a long time. His jaw flexed. His breathing hitched. He wished they never blew up the place. If they hadn’t, his son would have lived.

They blew up the place right after killing Cqrlos, and the house fire ended up killing both Landon and Theresa, who were too drunk to function.

"I don’t even know where to start," he said quietly, the words tumbling out into the wind. "You’d hate that, huh? You always said I talk like a man who’s about to sell something. And maybe I was. Maybe that’s what I did all your life. I sold you a father I never really was."

He exhaled, a long, uneven breath. His hand brushed over the cold marble, his fingertips tracing the letters of his son’s name.

"I wasn’t there, Landon." His voice cracked. "Not when you were born, not when you had your first fever, not when you fell off your bike, and not even when you needed someone to tell you that the world isn’t supposed to hurt this much."

The silence pressed heavily around him.

"I told myself I was working for us. For you. That every deal, every late night, and every bloodstained shirt was for something greater." He swallowed, his jaw tightening. "But it was for me. It was always for me. To feel important. To feel powerful. To feel like I was more than the street boy who clawed his way out of the dirt."

He laughed softly, bitter, and hollow. "Funny thing is, I thought I was winning. And all that time, I was just losing you."

The wind picked up, brushing through the trees. The rustle of the leaves almost sounded like his son’s laughter. One he almost never heard.

Ronan’s eyes stung. "You know, I used to think you were weak. Because you felt things too deeply. I thought the world would eat you alive." He shook his head. "Turns out, you were the only one who knew how to live in it."

He paused. His voice softened. "Dominic told me once that you never stopped asking about me as a kid. Even when you stopped calling, and even when you stopped hoping."

He closed his eyes. "You forgave me long before I ever earned it."

For a long while, he said nothing. He just stood there. He was a man with his guilt staring down at the space where a son should’ve had a future.

Finally, he knelt again, both hands flat on the ground this time, as if the soil could somehow listen. "I’m sorry, son." His voice broke completely. "For not being there. For not choosing you. For being the kind of father that made you feel alone, even when I was breathing the same air."

The tears came quietly. They slipped past the edges of his eyes, caught on the lines of a face that had seen too much war and too little peace.

"I’d trade everything I’ve ever built," he whispered, "just to hear you call me Dad again. Not Ronan, and not with bitterness. Just... Dad."

He stayed there for a long time, with his head bowed. The afternoon sun began to dip, casting golden streaks through the trees.

And then, as if the world had mercy for a second, a small bird landed on the headstone. It tilted its head and chirped once, soft, and fleeting before flying off again.

Ronan’s lips curved faintly, almost against his will. "You’d laugh at me if you saw this, huh? Talking to a rock and thinking a bird is a sign."

He stood up slowly, brushing off his knees. His shoulders straightened, but his eyes stayed on the grave.

"I can’t fix what I broke," he said quietly. "But I’ll make sure Dominic doesn’t end up like me. I’ll make sure he never lets his children grow up wondering if they were enough."

He stepped back, hands still in his pockets, with the wind brushing through his hair.

"I’ll keep visiting," he promised softly. "Not because you need me to. But because I finally need you."

He turned to leave, but something in him resisted. His steps faltered.

He stopped halfway down the path and looked back at the headstone again. He stared at the name that had once belonged to the boy who followed him around barefoot through the garden, who’d scraped his knees and looked up with those same sharp eyes that had asked why are you never home, Dad?

His chest tightened again.

"I was scared of you," Ronan murmured. "You looked at me like you could see through everything I pretended to be. That’s why I stayed away. You were too much like me... and too much like the man I wished I’d been."

His gaze softened. The wind brushed through his hair, lifting the edges of his coat. The world felt too still, too aware.

He let out a shaky breath. "Your mother used to say I’d never stop running until the ground caught me." He laughed under his breath. "I guess it finally did, huh?"

Ronan’s eyes wandered across the nearby plots. Across the other names, and other stories.

He crouched again, reaching out, with his fingers brushing away a stray leaf from Landon’s name.

"Dominic’s married now," he said after a moment, his voice steady but low. "He’s got twins. Two girls, Celsa and Selene. You would’ve loved them if only I raised you right. They look just like him, but they smile like Celeste. The man can make empires fall with a phone call, but those two tiny girls have him on his knees."

He exhaled softly, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting over his lips. "He’s everything I couldn’t be. Because of you. Because he saw what I was with you and Grace... and decided he’d never be that kind of man to his family."

Ronan’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. "So maybe... you saved more than you knew, son."

He closed his eyes for a long second, letting the wind hum through the space between his words.

"I bought this land," he parted his eyes finally. "All of it. The entire estate. No more forgotten graves. No more fading names. You’ll stay here, where it’s quiet. Where no one can touch what’s left of you."

He took one last long look at the headstone. "And when my time comes... I’ll rest right beside you. Not because I deserve it, but because I’ll never stop trying to."

He waited a moment, just long enough for the silence to stretch thin, and then he whispered,

"I love you, son."

His hands fell to his sides. He looked up toward the sky, where clouds drifted lazily in the pale gold light.

And for a moment, he swore he saw it. A boy’s silhouette, faint, and standing barefoot in the sun, grinning like he used to.

The image faded as quickly as it came. But Ronan’s eyes stayed there, unmoving.

He smiled weakly. "I’ll take that as goodbye."

Then, without another word, he turned and walked down the long path out of the cemetery.

The wind followed him. The grass swayed again.

By the time he reached the gates, the last light of day had pooled into orange and rose across the horizon.

Ronan paused once more, just before he stepped through. His shadow stretched long and thin behind him, across the graves, until it reached Landon’s.

He took one final breath, low and steady. "To the next life," he said quietly. "Where we’ll get it right."

Author’s Note:

I feel like just because you have a good father doesn’t mean your mother, or the people around him are being treated right.

And just because you have a good brother doesn’t mean his family has a good father, or a good husband, or even, his girlfriend has a good boyfriend.

Sometimes, goodness is selective. And sometimes, love isn’t enough to make someone kind to everyone they should’ve protected.