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"I have never found you wanting. Everything I've done—every expectation, every standard, every push for excellence—came from wanting you to be strong enough to face a world that gives nothing freely."

"Bullshit," he spat, but there was uncertainty beneath the venom now.

"You've made it clear just how disappointed you are in me in who I am and the man I’ve grown to be without your help."

"No," I said simply.

"I've spent the time I have gotten to know you, terrified for you."

The admission hung in the air between us, raw and unexpected. I was vaguely aware of Savannah and my father watching in silence, witnesses to a confession years in the making.

"Terrified?" Miles repeated, confusion replacing anger.

"That you'd be hurt the way I was when my mother left. That you'd build your life around people who could abandon you without a backward glance. That you'd mistake achievement for worth the way I did."

The words poured out, unstoppable now that the dam had broken.

"I pushed you because I thought strength would protect you. I held you to impossible standards because I thought excellence would shield you from rejection."

Miles stared at me, naked shock in his expression. In the years I’ve gotten to know my son, this was perhaps the most honest conversation we'd ever had.

"Well, it didn't work," he said finally, his voice hoarse with emotion he was clearly fighting to control.

"All it did was make me feel like I was never enough."

"I know." The acknowledgment cost me everything.

"I failed you. Not because you disappointed me, but because I couldn't find a way to show you how much you mattered without trying to make you invulnerable to pain."

Silence settled over the library, heavy with years of misunderstanding.

My father watched us with an expression I couldn't decipher—sorrow, perhaps, or recognition. Savannah stood slightly apart, giving us space for this moment while remaining present, supportive.

Miles moved to the window again, staring out at the garden. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its edge, revealing the hurt beneath.

"You know what the sick part is? Part of me always knew she'd be better with you."

I froze, the statement hitting like a physical blow.

"What?"

He turned back to face us, something like resignation in his expression.

"Savannah. I knew from the beginning she was too much for me. Too smart. Too ambitious. Too... real." His gaze shifted to her.

"You needed someone who could match you. Who wouldn't feel threatened by your success or try to dim your light to make their own seem brighter."

Savannah's breath caught audibly.

"Miles—"

"I ended things because, deep down, I knew I couldn't be what you needed," he continued, addressing her directly now.

"I didn't expect my father to fill that role, but... it makes a twisted kind of sense."

The honesty in his assessment caught me completely off guard. This wasn't the entitled, resentful son I'd expected to face today.

This was a man capable of painful self-awareness, of recognizing his own limitations.