Chapter 66 – A Father's Reactions
My name is Mathew Anderson. Some call me Matt. Others, simply "Mr. Anderson." But there's a title I struggle to say out loud, even though I've carried it for years: father.
Since I was young, work was my language. I learned it from my father, who learned it from his own. Routine, discipline, duty. There was no room for questions. No time for pauses. My wife and I grew up in that rhythm, in that logic. We met in an office, fell in love between reports and badly served coffee. We married without a big ceremony, because we had to be back at work on Monday. That was life. That was how we understood it.
And then Cody came.
We didn't plan him like you plan a meeting. We didn't schedule him like you schedule a business appointment. Cody was a gift. One we didn't ask for, but one that changed us. At first, we didn't know what to do with him. He was small, fragile, noisy. He filled the house with sounds that weren't on our agenda. He cried at times we couldn't control. He laughed for no reason. He asked endlessly.
I looked at him and thought: how do you raise someone who doesn't come with a manual?
My wife tried more than I did. She took him to the park, read him stories, sang him songs she learned from her mother. I… I watched from the doorway. Sometimes I sat with them, but my mind was elsewhere. On the unanswered email. On the unfinished project. On the client waiting.
And so the years passed.
Cody grew. And we kept working.
It wasn't out of malice. It wasn't out of indifference. It was out of habit. Out of fear. Out of ignorance. We thought giving him everything material was enough. That if he had toys, clothes, school, food, then he was fine. That if we bought him what he asked for, it would fill the spaces we didn't know how to occupy.
But gifts don't cover the gaps. They don't replace hugs. They don't replace the conversations we never had.
Cody began to shut himself away. Not in his room, but in himself. He became quieter. More ironic. More distant. And I… I noticed. But I didn't know how to approach him. I didn't know how to break the wall I had helped build.
Sometimes I asked how he was. He said "fine." Sometimes I asked if he needed anything. He said "no." Sometimes I tried to joke. He answered with sarcasm. And I let it go. Because I didn't want to make him uncomfortable. Because I didn't want to make myself uncomfortable.
But I knew. I knew we failed him. That we weren't there. That we didn't know how to be parents, at least not in the way he needed.
And that… that weighs on me.
Not every day. Not every moment. But there are nights when I wake up and see him as a child, with big eyes, waiting for me to say something more than "do your homework." There are days when I hear him laugh in an old video, and I wonder why I didn't hear it more in person.
Cody was a gift. One we didn't know how to hold. One who grew up alone, even though he was surrounded by things.
And now, looking back, I realize that work gave us many things. But it also took others away. It took our time. It took our presence. It took the chance to know our son when he needed us most.
I don't say it with guilt. Guilt paralyzes. I say it with pain. With recognition. With the hope that there is still time. That I can still be part of his life. That I can still learn to be a father, even though he is more man than child now.
Cody was always special. Even when we didn't understand him. Even when we didn't know how to talk to him. And now, seeing him from afar, I realize that gift is still there. That it hasn't been lost. That it only waits to be opened again.
---
There are moments that don't announce themselves. They don't have a date marked on the calendar. They don't come with warning. They just happen. And when they happen, one should be there.
But I wasn't.
Not out of malice. Not out of contempt. Out of distraction. Out of ignorance. Out of fear, maybe. Because work always seemed more urgent. Because life always seemed busier. Because being a father didn't come with instructions, and I… I didn't know how to improvise.
Cody never reproached me. Never yelled at me. Never said "you weren't there." But that doesn't mean he didn't feel it. And that doesn't mean I didn't know.
There are silences that scream. There are looks that accuse without words. There are distances built without anyone naming them.
I remember his first school competition. It wasn't a big deal. A spelling bee. My wife went. I didn't. I had a meeting. A presentation. A client who couldn't wait. Cody won second place. He told me over the phone. His voice was calm. Too calm. As if he had already learned not to expect enthusiasm from me.
I remember his twelfth birthday. We bought him a video game console. The most expensive. The most modern. But we didn't sing him "Happy Birthday." We didn't bake him a cake. We didn't ask who he wanted to celebrate with. We gave him the gift and went on with our day. He shut himself in his room. Played alone. And I thought he was happy. Because he had what he wanted. Because he didn't complain.
But now, looking back, I know what he wanted wasn't a console. It was company. It was presence. It was someone to tell him "I'm glad you're growing up."
I remember when he started to change. To become more sarcastic. More distant. More closed off. My wife told me it was adolescence. That it was normal. That all boys become like that. But I knew it wasn't just that. It was something deeper. A way to protect himself. To not expect. To not ask.
And I let him be. Because I didn't know how to enter. Because I didn't want to make him uncomfortable. Because I didn't want to make myself uncomfortable.
But I knew.
I knew I should have been more present. That I should have asked more. That I should have listened more. That I should have said "I love you" more often, even if it was hard. Even if it wasn't my language.
Cody didn't tell me. But he showed me. In how he pulled away. In how he took refuge in his interests. In how he sought in others what he didn't find at home.
And that… that hurts.
Not like an open wound. But like a scar you discover years later, when it's too late to prevent it.
There are moments when I should have been there. When he got sick and asked to be alone. When he was afraid and didn't want to say why. When he fell in love for the first time and had no one to talk to. When he felt less, and no one told him he was enough.
I should have been there. Not to solve his life. But to accompany him. To hold him. To tell him he wasn't alone.
But I wasn't.
And even though he never said it, I know.
I know it in how he looks at me. In how he talks to me. In how he laughs with others, but keeps his distance with me.
I know it in how he has learned to live without expecting. In how he has built his world without us. In how he has matured without our guidance.
And that… that is a lesson.
Not to blame myself. But to understand. To change. To try, even if it's late.
Because being a father isn't just being there for the big moments. It's being there for the small ones. In the silences. In the doubts. In the aimless afternoons.
And I failed at that.
But I still want to learn. To be present. To listen. To ask. To say "I love you" without my voice trembling.
Because Cody, even if he doesn't say it, deserves that. He deserves a father who doesn't just admire him from afar. But who accompanies him up close.
And even though the past can't be changed, the present is still here.
And I… I want to be there.
---
I was never the most affectionate. Nor the most open. I didn't grow up in a house where feelings were spoken about. In my family, emotions were like tools: used when necessary, but never left lying on the table. My father taught me to work, to fulfill, to never complain. My mother taught me to be strong, to never cry in public, to never depend on anyone. And I… I followed that script.
But now I know that actions without words can look like indifference. That being present without speaking can look like absence. That loving without saying it can look like forgetting.
Cody grew up. And I watched him from a distance. Not because he was far away, but because I didn't know how to get close. I didn't know how to ask him what he felt. I didn't know how to tell him I cared. I didn't know how to tell him I admired him, even if I didn't fully understand him.
He was a frail boy. Thin. With glasses too big for his face and a backpack that seemed heavier than him. A fan of many things. Comics. Video games. Action movies. Girls, above all. He thought that would fill him. That if someone loved him, then he would be worth more.
And I watched him. And I worried. But I said nothing.
Because I didn't know how to say it.
Because I didn't want him to think I was judging him.
Because I didn't want him to ask me things I didn't know how to answer.
And then time passed.
My wife and I went on a trip. A retreat we had planned for years. A month away. A month without emails. Without meetings. Without noise. Just us. And it was good. It was necessary. But it was also a pause that pulled us further away from Cody.
When we came back, we saw him.
And I didn't recognize him.
The frail boy with confidence issues and social awkwardness was gone. In his place stood a guy over six feet tall, full of muscle, with a firm posture and a different look in his eyes. It was Cody. I knew it by his features. By his smile. But something had changed. Something deep. Something I didn't understand.
My wife stayed silent. So did I.
We looked at him as if we were seeing a stranger.
And what hurt most… was knowing that change had happened without us.
That while we rested, he transformed.
That while we pulled away, he found himself.
And then, for the first time in a long time, I felt something I hadn't felt before: urgency.
Urgency to know him.
Urgency to understand him.
Urgency not to lose what was left.
We had a month together before he joined that program he had mentioned. A program of competition, challenges, living together. I didn't fully understand what it was about. But he was excited. And I… I just wanted to make the most of that month.
And it was the best month I've ever had with him.
I saw him train. I saw him cook. I saw him play music. I saw him laugh. I saw him think. I saw him speak with passion about things that once seemed trivial to me. I saw him be himself, without fear. I saw him mature. I saw him whole.
And it hurt.
It hurt to know he had gotten there without me.
But it also made me happy.
Happy to see that, despite everything, he had grown. That he had found his path. That he had built something solid, even though we weren't the scaffolding.
And in that month, I tried to be a father.
Not the provider. Not the spectator. The father.
I asked him things. I listened. I told him things I had never said. I told him I admired him. I told him it hurt not to have been there more. I told him I wanted to know him, even if it was late.
And he… he supported me.
He didn't say much. But he looked at me with an expression I had never seen before. A mix of surprise, tenderness, caution.
And that was enough.
Because sometimes, love doesn't need words. Just presence.
And I… I was there.
At last.
---
The farewell was strange. Not because words were missing, but because emotions overflowed that we didn't know how to name.
Cody was ready. You could see it in his posture, in his gaze, in the way he carried his backpack as if it were an extension of himself. He was no longer the boy hiding behind his glasses. He was someone else. Someone who had decided to leave. Not out of escape, but out of drive. Out of desire. Out of conviction.
My wife hugged him longer than he expected. I patted him on the shoulder, as if that were enough to say everything I hadn't said in years. He smiled. Not mockingly. Tenderly. As if he understood that, clumsy as they were, our gestures were sincere.
"See you soon," Cody said.
"Take care," I said.
"Do what makes you happy," his mother said.
And then he left.
A car recognized him. A producer greeted him enthusiastically. An assistant handed him a contract we had already reviewed. And in a matter of minutes, our son was on his way to an island we didn't know, to participate in a program we barely understood.
The following days were strange. The house felt bigger. Quieter. Emptier. My wife cooked too much. I checked my email more often. But we both knew we were waiting for something: the premiere.
And it came.
The first trailer came out on social media. We watched it together, sitting on the couch, with the TV on and our hearts racing.
There was Cody.
Smiling. Expectant. His eyes shining with excitement. With that mix of nerves and enthusiasm you only have when you're about to start something big.
My wife got emotional. So did I. But I won't lie: we worried.
The host had a bad reputation. We had looked him up. Chris McLean. A man known for being unpredictable, cruel, chaotic. The show had a history of extreme challenges, absurd dynamics, situations bordering on dangerous.
"Will he be okay?" my wife asked.
"I don't know," I said.
But Cody looked happy. And that, for now, was enough.
The first episode aired a week later. We watched it with popcorn, like it was a movie. But it wasn't fiction. It was our son. On screen. In real time.
The introduction was fun. The campers came off a boat, introduced themselves, made jokes. Cody greeted with a smile, with a phrase that showed him confident, relaxed, ready.
We learned the rules. The teams. The companions. Some kids were interesting. Others, odd. But all had something. All were part of the world Cody had chosen.
And then we saw them.
The goth girl. Gwen. Quiet, intelligent, with a deep gaze.
The one with the bad attitude. Heather. Arrogant, confident, with an air that asked no permission.
"They're Cody's type," I said.
"What type?" my wife asked.
"The type that challenges him. That intrigues him. That makes him think there's more beyond the obvious," I said.
She bet on another. I bet on Gwen or Heather. It was a game. But it was also a way to get closer to him. To understand him. To imagine him.
And Cody… Cody stood out.
He participated. He spoke. He joked. He moved with ease. He wasn't invisible. He wasn't secondary. He was part of the group. And that… that made me happy.
"He's fine," I said.
"He's growing," my wife said.
And then came the second episode.
And with it, the first scare.
The challenge was to jump into the sea from a cliff. With sharks. With cameras. With screams.
"Who the hell designs this?" I shouted.
My wife looked at me with panic in her eyes.
"Go get him! We'll pull him out!" she said.
But before we could do anything, we saw him.
Cody jumped.
Without hesitation. Without trembling. Without looking back.
And he did it well.
I didn't know my son was that brave. I didn't know he had that drive. That strength. That determination.
My friends called me. They said he stole the show. That his jump was epic. That an accident with a blonde named Lindsay made it even more memorable.
Then came another challenge. Building a jacuzzi. Simpler. More technical. Cody and his team solved it quickly. Efficiently. With leadership.
"He's going to crush it," I said.
"He's incredible," my wife said.
And I… I knew it.
Because after the month we spent together, I understood that Cody wasn't just a strong kid. He was capable. Intelligent. Creative. A leader.
And though I don't say it in front of my wife, I know he got that from me.
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