2. Milo

The Wynwood Art District screamed in color. A kaleidoscope of graffiti and murals demanded attention, dragons intertwining with abstract shapes, faces emerging from splashes of pink and blue. I felt a strange kinship with the fragmented art—trying to make sense of the mess I’d made.

I checked my watch. Three minutes early. Or five years late, depending on your perspective.

The coffee shop Logan had suggested as neutral ground with plenty of conversational hooks was right ahead. It was one of those hipster havens with Edison bulbs and reclaimed wood tables. Hurray. I just loved it when the barista judged me for ordering anything less complex than a triple-shot oat milk latte with a caramel swirl.

‘You’ve got this,’ Logan had texted only minutes ago. ‘Dinner’s on me tonight. Love you.’

Yeah. I so hadn’t got this.

But I was here, and that had to count for something. With a deep breath, I pushed open the door and entered.

I stepped into the scent of fresh coffee and music by some indie band, likely with an unpronounceable name. My parents were already there, seated at a corner table beneath a mural of a woman with flowing blue hair. Mom stirred her tea with a precision that suggested the fate of nations depended on it. Dad flipped through a magazine he wasn’t reading. They looked… older. Or maybe just cautious. Tired.

Did I look the same to them?

I slid into an empty chair before my courage bailed. “Hi.”

They looked up as one—surprise flickering across their faces, as though they hadn’t expected me to actually show. It made room for guarded smiles.

“Milo.” Mom’s voice caught on the second syllable.

“Son,” Dad echoed. He set the magazine down in perfect alignment with the table edge.

Silence. The kind that could fill a stadium.

I resisted the urge to fiddle with the sugar packets. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“Of course.” Mom’s reply carried a desperate twinge, her eyes darting to Dad. “We were so happy to get your letter.”

He nodded, shadows muting the blue of his irises. “It’s been a while.”

Understatement of the century.

“Yeah, well.” I lifted one shoulder and dropped it again, glanced at the abstract painting behind them. Somehow, the riot of colors resonated. “I guess time flies when you’re avoiding the mess you’ve made of things.”

“Milo…” My name, again, now coated in softness. Mom reached across the table, her hand hovering near mine before settling back on her teacup. Just a small, helpless gesture, but it gave me the guts to dive right in.

“I’m sorry.” I dropped my gaze to the table. “For how it all went down. For shutting you out.”

“It’s on us, too.” This time, her fingers grazed the back of my hand. “We should have done more. Tried harder.”

”We thought giving you space was the right choice.” Dad cleared his throat. “That you needed to find your own path. ”

I let one corner of my mouth twist into a wry smile. “Yeah, well. Turned out I could have used some good, old-fashioned authoritarian upbringing to set me straight.”

Damn it, I hadn’t meant to sound like I blamed them. Old habits.

Before I could clarify, a waitress appeared to take my order, and I went with a double-shot espresso, black. While her left eye might have twitched at the simplicity of it, she didn’t point me toward the closest Starbucks, so I counted it as a win.

Another pause followed her departure.

“So, uh.” Dad twisted his wedding band, the nervous tic so familiar it bordered on painful. “You’re back in Miami? After some time teaching diving in Dominica?”

Diving, rebuilding myself from the ground up. Falling in love.

“I am.” Needlessly, I nodded. “Staying with Katie for now. I’ll get my own place soon.”

“Oh. Right.” Mom sounded careful, exchanging a brief glance with Dad. “So you aren’t looking to move in with Logan? That was his name, wasn’t it?”

No way did she not remember Logan’s name. While I’d mentioned him just once in my letter, my mom had always been great with details—and Logan was anything but.

“Not just yet,” I said, and then decided to answer her real question. “And no, I’m not about to fall into old patterns. I’m not who I was back then, and Logan is nothing like Michael. I hope you’ll meet him one day.”

The shift was subtle—my mom’s expression relaxed just slightly, my dad’s shoulders loosening. They’d worried . God. My throat felt tight.

“We’d love to,” Mom said softly.

Since a proper answer proved beyond my reach, I settled for smiling at her. At both of them. Brief silence followed that felt lighter than before.

“Tell us about Dominica?” Dad asked then, and I heard what he didn’t say. Tell us how you’ve been, who you’ve become .

And so I did, choosing my words with care because this reconciliation was a long way from the finish line.

But it was a start.