Page 199 of Lucky Mother Pucker

“I didn’t know either,” I say softly. “None of us did.”

“This whole thing was a wake-up call,” he says. “It made me realize that if I don’t fix my relationship with my kids, I’ll have nothing worthwhile left in my life.”

His words land like cold water splashing onto my face. I’ve never heard my dad talk about me in that way. Like I’m important. Like I matter. Like I’m more than just an extension of himself.

Like I’m his son.

Something behind my ribcage catches, and for a second, it’s hard to breathe.

“I told your sister I was sorry,” he says. “For not paying more attention. For not checking on her. For not being the father she deserved. And I told her that I wanted to work on our relationship.”

“What did she say?”

He lets out a shaky breath. “She accepted my apology and said she wanted to work on our relationship too.”

I’m quiet as I process what he’s said.

“I’m sorry for the way I treated you all these years, Leo. I went about all this the wrong way. I wanted you to be the best at hockey, and I thought the way to do that was to be tough with you. It’s what I was used to. It’s how my dad treated me.”

I frown, confused. No way can he be talking about Grandpa—his dad. Grandpa Paolo was a big softie. Always smiling and joking with Zoey and me. Always hugging and cuddling with us when we were little.

Defensiveness kicks in. Is he seriously trying to rewrite history to make me feel sorry for him?

“What are you talking about?” I say. “Grandpa wasn’t like you. He was warm and kind and affectionate. He never criticized me. He always told me how proud he was of me, what a good player I was…”

Emotion flickers in my dad’s eyes as he focuses on me. “He was like that with you, Leo. He was your grandpa. But he was my father. And those were two very different people.”

A long silence stretches between us.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but your Grandpa Paolo wasn’t a warm and fuzzy teddy bear. Not with me. He was strict and unforgiving and hypercritical.” His jaw works, then he looks at me. “Sound familiar?”

I’m quiet as I look at him, stunned at what he’s said.

“He had high expectations for his oldest son,” Dad says, a tinge of sadness laced in his tone. “Anything less than greatness wasn’t tolerated. I worked hard my whole life, hoping I could earn his approval. I pushed myself to be the best hockey player I could be. I hoped that someday it would be enough. But it wasn’t.”

My head spins. I never thought that my grandpa could be anything other than the warm and loving man I knew. But my dad’s right. I only knew him as a grandfather. I have no idea what he was like before then—as a father.

“I don’t think he even realized how harsh he was. He came from a different time, and I think it was the only way he knew how to be a father,” my dad says. “But then, he had grandkids, and that softened him. He changed a lot. He became kinder, more generous.” He turns to me. “I’m glad you got to see that side of him.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t have the words. This is all such a shock.

“I realize now what a mistake I made, being the kind of father I was to you, Leo,” he says quietly. “I should have been kinder. I should have hugged you more. I should have told you that I’m proud of you. That I love you.”

He looks at me with that pained gaze. In that moment, I don’t recognize him. He doesn’t look like my dad. My dad is unforgiving, unfeeling, critical, and cruel. This person is someone else. This person is in pain. This person is willing to talk about his emotions. This person has a heart.

He looks me in the eye. “I’m proud of you, son. I always have been. I’m sorry I never told you that.”

Emotion swells up in my torso, clogging my throat.

“I know you probably don’t believe me, but it’s true, Leo. I’m really damn proud of you. And not just because you’re a great hockey player. You’re an incredible person.”

His voice starts to shake. He clears his throat.

“You have all the best qualities of your grandfather—the kindness, the generosity, the giving nature. But you’re better than he was because you were always like that. It’s just who you are.” He clears his throat. “It’s because of your mom too. She did a wonderful job raising you.”

I take in the regretful look in his eyes.

“Have you told her that? Have you apologized to her?” I ask, feeling protective of her. He needs to make things right with her too.