(I might have overshot the crying in this chapter…)
Sinbad stepped away from the other two men, not believing what he’d just heard.
“No,” he loudly stated to them, pointing at them to keep them from following him. “There’s no way in Hell you’re my dad.”
But Harwood stood his ground. “I just told you, Sinbad. DNA doesn’t lie. I know this is probably difficult for you to believe-”
“You’re damn right it’s difficult! You honestly expect me to think that some old hippie dude is my long-lost dad, after living my entire life without one in the picture?!”
“Sinbad, please, listen to me-”
But Sinbad didn’t want to. “No! If you really were my dad, then where the fuck have you been all these years? You couldn’t bother to keep in contact with the kid you didn’t want?!”
“That’s not it at all!” Marc flinched away from Harwood when he raised his voice. “I barely knew you existed until the day I saw you standing in the atelier.”
He took a step forward, and cupped his face in his hands. “I had a feeling about you the moment I met you. It was your eyes. It had to be those eyes of yours.
“I’m sorry for tricking you the way I did,” he said while trying not to falter. “But I didn’t know how else to learn the truth.”
Sinbad dropped the paper to the floor, taking hold of Harwood’s wrists. “You…”
He felt tears spilling down his cheeks now. “When I lived with that abusive whore, and when I was alone after she OD’ed…You’re telling me I had to suffer because you didn’t even know I existed?”
“If I’d known about you, I would have gladly raised you!” Harwood cried. “Back then I was still mourning my dead wife, so I wasn’t thinking right. All I thought about was trying to make it less painful.”
He began to sob himself. “I ended up paying for a prostitute one night while I was in Bridgeport. I know it was wrong to contribute to such a degrading thing, but I didn’t care at that point! I just needed someone.
“She told me her name was Maria, and I asked if it were her real name. She said it was none of my business. Then I guess she and I, well, made you.”
At this point, Marc stood behind Harwood again, and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m thinking that time you said your mom’s name, that set off something in his mind.” He looked at Harwood. “Right?”
Harwood nodded. “It was that one night, and I never saw her again. I didn’t know where she went after that. But to hear that she’s dead, well…”
Sinbad gently pulled away again. “Yeah, she died of an overdose when I was a kid. She still fucked me up in a way that’s lasted for years.”
He went on, grabbing his hair out of frustration. “I still can’t believe it’s you. All this time, for the years I’ve lived in Twinbrook, you’ve been living nearby?”
Sinbad’s voice was becoming thick with emotion. “Why? Why’d it take so long for me to know who my real father was? And why now?”
Harwood shrugged. “I don’t know. But I suppose better late than never. Just please realize that what you see on that paper is the truth.”
Picking up the paper on the floor, Marc quietly handed it back to Sinbad. Sinbad then looked it over again, his tears blurring his eyesight.
“So what you’re saying is true? You’re really my…?” His face scrunched up, culminating in his eyes squeezing shut.
He then opened his arms wide, strangely deciding he needed a hug.
“Daddy!” He exclaimed as he wrapped himself around Harwood, practically overwhelmed by it all.
All Harwood did was return his embrace, rubbing his back and holding him close.
He then gently pulled away, and let Sinbad take a look at Marc. “And…I also want you say hello to your older half-brother.”
Sinbad turned to look at Marc, who was patiently waiting for his turn to speak. He smiled as he warmly said to Sinbad, “Hey, little bro.”
All of it was getting to be too much for Sinbad. He just couldn’t properly form the words he wanted to say, and just included Marc into their little family hug.
-later that night-
Harwood didn’t want to keep his two sons waiting out in the truck for much longer.
Putting on a proper pair of socks, he quickly realized that his wedding photo had fallen to the floor at some point. Reaching for it, Harwood realized the glass had broken.
Interestingly, the glass seemingly had only broken on Macy’s half. His half was perfectly fine. Carefully running his fingers over the cracks, he quietly asked the picture:
“Is this your way of telling me I need to move on?” He hesitated a little longer, then set the picture back on top of the dresser.
Then Harwood went back out into the other room, and picked up the last remaining box of fireworks. Tucking it under his arm, he went out to join Sinbad and Marc.