Chapter 67 – A Father's Reactions (Part 2)
The third episode arrived faster than we expected. It was no longer just curiosity that drove us to turn on the television. It was necessity. It was connection. It was a way of being close to Cody, even if only through a screen.
My wife made tea. I sat down with a notebook, as if I were going to take notes. I don't know why I did it. Maybe because watching my son in a competition show made me feel like I was in an important meeting. As if every gesture of his were part of a report I had to understand.
The episode began with a deceptive calm. The campers were more relaxed, more adapted. Cody appeared on screen with a smile that was no longer nervous. It was confident. It was comfortable. It was his.
But then came the surprise.
Apparently, Cody had been pulling pranks at camp. Nothing serious. Nothing dangerous. But enough for the host to decide to "punish" him.
The punishment: play music for everyone.
My wife was outraged.
"That's a punishment? That's a gift!" she said.
And she was right.
Because what followed was a scene that left us speechless.
Cody stood in front of everyone. And he played.
Not as an obligation. Not as penance. As expression. As art. As declaration.
The camera focused on him from different angles. His posture was firm. His face, concentrated. His hands, steady. And the music… the music was beautiful.
The others listened. Some with surprise. Others with admiration. And we, from home, watched him as if it were the first time.
"That's my son," I said.
"That's our son," my wife corrected.
And she was right.
Because in that moment, Cody wasn't just the boy who had gone to an island. He was the artist. The young man who had found a way to say what isn't said. To show what isn't shown. To heal what isn't named.
But the episode didn't end there.
The main challenge was a competition of not sleeping. The campers had to stay awake as long as possible, facing tests, distractions, and accumulated fatigue.
Cody held firm. Not just through physical endurance. Through will. Through strategy. Through desire.
And then, at the end of the challenge, it happened.
Cody and Gwen, the goth girl, were together. Exhausted. Sitting side by side, eyes half-closed, words already spent. They had endured. They had won. And in that moment, as they drifted into sleep, they kissed.
My wife screamed.
"It can't be! You won the bet!" she said.
I raised my arms as if I had won a medal.
"I knew it! It was her! It was always her!" I said.
It was a brief kiss. Sincere. Warm. Not for show. Not for drama. For connection.
And that… that made me happy.
Not because of the bet. Not because of the game. Because of what it meant.
Because Cody, the boy who once sought affection in the wrong places, now found it in someone who saw him. Who listened to him. Who understood him.
My wife, though surprised, relented.
"You don't convince me completely. But if it makes him happy…" she said.
And I nodded.
Because in the end, that was what mattered.
Cody was fine. He was growing. He was connecting.
And we… we were watching him.
Not like before. Not from emotional distance. From presence. From pride. From love.
That episode was more than entertainment. It was revelation. It was confirmation. It was celebration.
And I… I felt closer to my son than ever.
---
The week began with something we didn't expect: calls.
First it was a talent agency. Then another. Then an email from a record label. All wanted to talk about Cody. About his presence. His charisma. His talent. His story.
My wife thought it was a joke. So did I. But the names were real. The proposals, serious. They wanted to know if Cody would be willing to record, to perform, to sign. They wanted to turn him into an artist. Into a public figure. Into something more than a contestant.
And I… I didn't know what to think.
Because for the first time, the world was seeing what we were only just beginning to discover.
Cody wasn't just our son. He was someone who touched others. Who connected. Who shone.
But before answering anyone, before considering contracts or proposals, the fourth episode arrived.
And with it, dodgeball.
From the start, we knew it would be physical. Intense. A test not only of strength, but of strategy.
Cody appeared on screen in a sleeveless shirt, showing muscles that still surprised me. He moved with agility. With precision. With energy.
And he dominated.
He threw balls with force. Dodged with skill. Directed his team with clarity. He was a leader. A competitor. A force.
"That he got from me," I said, without looking at my wife.
She didn't answer. But she smiled.
Because even if we don't say it often, we both know Cody has parts of us both. His sensitivity, his intelligence, his humor. But also his strength, his drive, his fire.
The game went on. Cody dominated. And then… it happened.
A boy on his team. I don't remember his name. One of those who seem to be there just to annoy. Betrayed him. Threw a ball at his back. Made him lose.
My wife screamed.
"That was on purpose! That idiot made him lose!" she said.
I clenched my fists.
Not because of the game. Because of the betrayal. Because of the injustice.
But Cody didn't stay down. He didn't get angry. He didn't seek revenge.
He stood up. He brushed himself off. And kept going.
And that… that impressed me.
Because before, Cody would have been frustrated. Would have shut himself away. Would have felt less.
But now… now he knew who he was. He knew what he was worth. He knew a defeat didn't define him.
Fortunately, he wasn't eliminated.
And that gave us relief.
But what followed was even more interesting.
Lindsay.
The blonde. The distracted one. The one who seemed to live in her own world.
She began to get close to Cody. To talk to him. To laugh with him. To seek him out.
And Cody… Cody responded.
Not with mockery. Not with sarcasm. With tenderness. With patience. With interest.
My wife noticed.
"Do you think he likes her?" she asked.
"I don't know. But it seems she does," I said.
And it was true.
Because Lindsay, though chaotic, had something. Something that connected with Cody. Something that made him smile differently.
And I… I watched.
Not as a jealous father. As a curious father. As a father who wants to understand.
Because Cody, in that episode, didn't just show strength. He showed humanity. He showed maturity.
And that… that made me proud.
The calls kept coming. The agencies insisted. The emails piled up.
But we… we only wanted him to be okay.
To keep growing.
To keep shining.
And above all, to keep being himself.
---
The fifth episode didn't start like the others.
There were no shouts, no explosions, no absurd challenges. This time, the show slowed down. It became more intimate. More human. More dangerous, but not physically—emotionally.
It was talent night.
The campers had to show something of their own. Something that represented them. Not to earn points. Not to survive. To share. To open up. To say "this is me" without needing to compete.
My wife and I sat in front of the television with a mix of excitement and nerves. The agencies kept calling. The emails kept coming. But that night, all of that was put on pause. Because we knew what we were about to see wouldn't be spectacle. It would be truth.
The first talents were varied. Some funny. Others strange. Some moving. But what impacted us most was what happened between the girls.
Heather, the one with the bad attitude, did something harsh to Gwen, the goth. We didn't fully understand what happened, but it was tense. Uncomfortable. Emotionally violent. Gwen stayed firm. But Cody… Cody went to her. He hugged her. He held her. He didn't say anything. He was just there. And that was enough.
Then, another girl threw up on him.
My wife screamed.
"What is going on in that place?!" she said.
I didn't know what to say. I just watched Cody clean himself, laugh nervously, and move on. As if he already knew that life sometimes throws things at you that you can't avoid. And that the important thing isn't avoiding them, but how you get back up afterward.
And then, his turn came.
Cody stepped onto the stage. Not with arrogance. With calm. With respect. With intention.
He didn't say anything at first. Just placed the microphone. Took a deep breath. And they projected an image behind him.
It was him.
The original Cody.
Thin. With outdated clothes. With a nervous smile. With a hunched posture. With messy hair and that expression that seemed to ask permission to exist.
It was him. It was our son. It was the one we had known for years. The one we saw grow up without knowing how to get close to him.
And seeing him there, on screen, as a symbol of what he had left behind… was hard.
Not because it embarrassed us. Because it hurt.
Because we knew that Cody had been alone. Had sought affection in the wrong places. Had tried to fit in without knowing how. Had waited for someone to see him. To listen to him. To understand him.
And we… we hadn't known how.
But Cody didn't stay in the image. He didn't stay in the past.
He played music.
He didn't say what it was. Didn't explain. He just played.
And what came from his hands… reached us.
All of us.
The campers. The host. The crew. Us.
It wasn't just a melody. It was a scene. A declaration. A way of saying "this is who I was" without saying "this is who I am."
The music spoke for him. Of change. Of growth. Of shedding a skin that no longer fit. Of learning to walk with your own steps. Of not waiting to be saved, but learning to save yourself.
And while he played, the image of his "former self" stayed there. Not as mockery. As witness. As part of him.
The others listened. Some with surprise. Others with tears. Others with a smile that said "I understand."
And we… we didn't know what to do with so much.
My wife cried. Not loudly. Deeply. With recognition.
I… I stayed silent.
Because seeing your child show his vulnerability, even partially, even with an image and music that needs no explanation, is something indescribable.
It hurt.
Not because it was sad. Because it was true.
Because we knew much of that pain came from us. From our absence. From our ignorance. From our lack of presence.
And still, Cody didn't blame us.
He mentioned us. With affection. With respect. He said his parents supported him. That they loved him. That they were learning.
And that… that was a gift.
Because he gave us space. He gave us forgiveness. He gave us opportunity.
When he finished, the others applauded. Some cried. Others looked at him with admiration.
And we… we just wanted to hug him.
That episode wasn't just a display of talent.
It was a display of soul.
And I… I felt closer to my son than ever.
---
The sixth episode was the hardest.
Not because of what we saw. Because of what we felt.
From the start, the challenge seemed simple: survive in the forest. Something physical, yes, but manageable. The campers had to orient themselves, build shelters, find food. Nothing that made us suspect what was coming.
My wife and I watched calmly. With confidence. Cody had shown strength, leadership, intelligence. We knew he would adapt. That he would take care of himself. That he would protect others.
But then, the roar.
The camera shook. The screams mixed. Chaos erupted.
A bear.
A damn bear.
It attacked Cody's group. It wasn't a scene edited for drama. It was real. Raw. Brutal.
And Cody… Cody jumped in.
He didn't run. He didn't hide. He didn't freeze.
He threw himself in to save his teammates.
My wife screamed. I stood up from the couch as if I could step into the screen.
"What is he doing?! Why isn't he running?!" she said.
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
The images were fast. Confusing. But clear in what mattered: Cody stepped in. Cody took the hit. Cody fell.
And we… we broke.
My wife began to cry. Not soft tears. Sobs. Desperation. Fear.
I grabbed the phone. Called the lawyers. Looked for flights. Contacted an old friend with a boat. I was ready to reach that island by sea if necessary.
"We're pulling him out. I don't care about the contract. I don't care about the production. I don't care about anything," I said.
My wife nodded, through tears.
"We're leaving now! Now! There's no time! That place is insane!" she said.
And then, the phone rang.
It was Cody.
His voice was tired. Worn. But firm.
"I'm fine," he said.
"You're not fine. A bear attacked you!" my wife said.
"It's over. They checked me. I'm bandaged. I'm whole," Cody said.
"We're coming for you! You can't stay there!" I said.
"Dad, Mom… this is mine. I chose this. I'm living this. I don't want to be saved. I want to be respected," Cody said.
And that… that broke us.
Because for the first time, our son didn't ask for help.
He asked for autonomy.
He asked for trust.
He asked us to see him as what he was: a young man who had learned to take care of himself. To decide. To face things.
But it wasn't a calm conversation. It was a fight. One of those fights that aren't shouted, but hurt more than any scream.
"You don't understand what we saw! Your mother is shattered! I'm shattered! You can't stay there as if nothing happened!" I said.
"It wasn't like it looked! Yes, it was dangerous, but I'm fine! I'm alive! I'm whole! I'm here!" Cody said.
"I don't want you to be 'here' on a call! I want you home! I want to see you! I want to know you're safe!" my wife said.
"Safe doesn't mean locked away! Safe doesn't mean taking away what I'm building! Don't pull me out of this! Don't take away what is finally mine!" Cody said.
"You don't understand what it is to lose a child! You don't understand what it is to see your blood on a screen and not be able to do anything!" I said.
"And you don't understand what it is to live with fear of not being enough! Of not being seen! Of not being respected! This is giving me something I never had!" Cody said.
My wife stayed silent. So did I.
Because the pain was real. But so was his decision.
And then, something else.
"Gwen is with me. She's taking care of me. She's my girlfriend," Cody said.
My wife frowned.
"I don't like that girl," she said.
"But she makes him happy," I said.
And that was enough.
Not to calm the pain. But to understand that, even if it hurts us, Cody is growing. He's choosing. He's living.
That was the hardest episode.
Because it showed us we can't protect him from everything.
That we can't spare him pain.
That we can't decide for him.
But it also showed us that, despite everything, he's okay.
He's strong.
He's loved.
He's alive.
And that… that is enough.
---