He dragged the bike upright and steadied himself for a moment before climbing on, his hands trembling as they wrapped around the handlebars. Every push of the pedal sent a dull ache through his body, but he rode anyway, keeping his head low as the streets slipped past him. By the time he reached his house, the sun had begun to dip, casting long shadows across the compound.
He wheeled the bike inside and barely had time to shut the gate before his father's voice rang out from the living room. "Merlee."
He froze for half a second, then walked in. His father stood there in his work clothes, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp and assessing. It took only a glance for the man's expression to change.
"What happened to your face?" his father demanded, stepping closer. "Why are you bleeding?"
"It's nothing," Merlee said quietly, brushing past him.
His father grabbed his arm. "Nothing does not split your lip and cover you in bruises. Who did this to you?"
Merlee pulled his arm free. "I said it's nothing."
That was all it took. His father's voice rose, thick with anger and disappointment. "You are always in trouble. Always. Every week it is something new with you. Fighting, warnings from school, complaints from neighbors. Do you enjoy embarrassing me?"
Merlee clenched his jaw and said nothing, his silence only fueling the fire.
"Answer me," his father snapped. "What did you do this time?"
"I didn't do anything," Merlee replied, his voice low but steady.
Just then, his mother hurried in from the kitchen, her eyes widening when she saw his face. "What is going on?" she asked, already reaching for him. "Merlee, you're hurt."
"He refuses to tell me," his father said bitterly. "As usual."
She gently touched Merlee's cheek, her voice soft. "Sit down, please. Let me clean that."
"I'm fine," Merlee said, stepping back.
His father scoffed. "Fine? Look at him. This boy will be the end of me. Do you know what people say about my son? Do you know how it looks when a respected doctor's child keeps showing up bruised and broken?"
"That's enough," his mother said firmly, placing herself between them. "Yelling will not fix anything."
His father paced the room, running a hand through his hair. "I work my whole life to build a name, to earn respect in this city, and he is busy destroying it. Fighting in the streets like a thug. No discipline. No shame."
Merlee finally looked up, his eyes hard. "I didn't ask you to be a doctor."
The room went still. His mother gasped softly, while his father stared at him in disbelief.
"You see?" his father said, his voice cold now. "This is what I mean. No respect. No sense."
His mother placed a calming hand on her husband's arm. "Please. Not tonight. He is hurt. Let him rest."
His father shook his head, pointing at Merlee. "This boy will ruin everything if he continues like this. Mark my words."
Merlee turned away without another word and walked toward his room, his body aching, his mind heavier than the bruises he carried.
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, letting out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. His room felt smaller than usual, the walls pressing in as the pain finally caught up with him. He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, staring at the floor like it might offer him answers it never had before.
A few seconds later, the door opened quietly. His mother stepped in and shut it gently behind her, careful not to make a sound that might startle him. She did not speak at first. She simply walked over, pulled a chair close, and knelt in front of him, her eyes soft with worry as she studied his face.
"Let me see," she said calmly, reaching for a clean cloth and a small bowl of water.
"I'm fine," Merlee muttered, turning his head away.
She did not argue. She never did. She dabbed carefully at the dried blood on his lip, her touch light, almost apologetic, she was afraid of hurting him more than he already was. He winced but stayed still.
"You don't have to tell me what happened," she said quietly. "But you scared me today."
He said nothing.
She cleaned his bruises slowly, methodically, like she was trying to piece him back together one careful motion at a time.
"You're a good boy," she continued, her voice steady even as her eyes glistened. "You just make choices that bring trouble. I don't want to lose you to that."
He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening, but still he said nothing.
She finished tending to him and stood up, smoothing her dress as she did. "Please," she added softly, her hand resting on the door. "Try not to get into trouble anymore."
She turned the knob and paused, her back still to him.
That was when he spoke. His voice was low, raw, stripped of the anger he showed everyone else.
"He hates me."
She froze, her hand still on the door.
She did not turn around right away. She stayed there with her hand on the door, her shoulders rising and falling slowly as if she were choosing her words with care. When she finally faced him, her expression was gentle but tired, the look of someone who had tried to hold a family together for a long time.
"He doesn't hate you," she said softly, walking back into the room and sitting beside him on the bed. "Your father just doesn't know how to show love the way you need it. He believes being strict will make you strong. He believes pushing you hard will keep you from becoming what he fears."
Merlee let out a quiet, humorless breath and shook his head. "That's not love," he said, his voice steady but hollow. "Love doesn't sound like disappointment every time you speak. Love doesn't make you feel like a mistake."
She reached for his hand, holding it tightly between both of hers. "He worries about you more than you think," she insisted. "He sees the trouble you get into and he's afraid. Afraid you'll throw your life away. Afraid he won't be able to protect you."
Merlee looked away, his eyes fixed on the far wall. "He's never afraid of losing me," he replied. "He's only afraid of losing his name. His respect. That's all he ever talks about."
His mother swallowed, her grip tightening just a little. "Parents make mistakes too," she said quietly. "Sometimes they hurt the people they love without meaning to."
"That doesn't make it hurt less," Merlee answered.
"Just remember," she said gently, "even if he doesn't say it the right way, you are loved in this house."
Merlee did not respond. He stared ahead, his thoughts tangled and unresolved, knowing deep down that no explanation could erase the feeling that had lived in him for years.
When she finally left the room, closing the door softly behind her, he remained seated on the bed, alone with the ache in his body and the heavier ache in his chest, convinced that some distances could not be crossed no matter how much love stood on the other side.