Chapter 13: Visiting Hours
The iron gates of Oakridge Residential Facility clicked shut behind Julian with a heavy, final sound. The facility sat on a quiet hillside surrounded by tall pine trees that swayed gently in the crisp winter wind. It was vastly different from the sterile, fluorescent-lit ward at St. Jude’s; here, patients were encouraged to walk the manicured garden paths and participate in art therapy programs designed to help them process their trauma.
Julian walked down the gravel pathway, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his wool coat. A nurse had called him three days ago with a message: Rebecca had asked to see him. Not to argue about custody, not to dredge up old resentments, but simply to speak face-to-face under supervision.
He stopped outside a small glass-walled pavilion where patients and visitors could sit together. Inside, sitting at a round wooden table near the window, was Rebecca. She looked older, her short dark hair flecked with silver at the temples, but her posture was calm and composed. She wore a simple cream-colored cardigan over a grey shirt, her hands resting quietly on the surface of the table.
Julian pushed the glass door open and stepped inside. The room was warm, smelling faintly of pine needles and instant coffee.
"Julian," Rebecca said softly, looking up as he approached. Her voice lacked the sharp edge of bitterness that had defined their final months together.
"Rebecca," Julian replied, pulling out the opposite chair and sitting down slowly. He kept a respectful distance, his eyes searching her face for any sign of the erratic rage that had once consumed her. "The nurse said you wanted to see me."
Rebecca nodded, looking out the window toward the distant hills where the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. "I wanted to apologize. Not just for that night—though I know words can never undo what I put the children through—but for the years of poison I let grow inside this marriage."
Julian remained silent for a long moment, letting her words settle in the quiet space between them. "You almost destroyed everything we built, Rebecca. You terrified Lily, and you nearly broke Leo's spirit."
"I know," she whispered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "My paranoia ate me alive from the inside out. Every day I carried that secret, I felt like I was walking on cracked ice, waiting for it to break and swallow me whole. When I saw how much you loved Lily—how truly wonderful of a father you were to her—it didn't make me happy. It made me angry, because I thought you only loved her because you didn't know the truth."
"Biology doesn't make a father, Rebecca," Julian said firmly, his voice steady and clear. "I raised her. I loved her. She is my daughter, regardless of what any document or blood test says."
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Rebecca gave a sad, melancholic smile. "It took me losing everything to finally understand that. I’m glad you’re a better man than I ever gave you credit for being."
***
