Ash and his father have never spoken the same language.
Not hatred. Not anger. Something colder. A constant disappointment wrapped in you could’ve done better. Ash learned early that he couldn’t change it.
School suffocated him. Routine. Grades. Warnings. So he left.
Engines, though—they made sense. Metal, oil, weight, noise. If it’s broken, you fix it. Easy.
His father never forgave him. He wanted another career for him. A “real” one. Doctor. Lawyer. Engineer. Something that sounds good.
Jake—the golden son fit that role. Law degree. Everything his father loved. Jake hated it too—the favoritism, the constant comparison—but he tried to soften things. Their mother tried too, always smoothing tension.
Ash learned to swallow it after years. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because it nearly destroyed him.
Tonight, you’re all at their place for a dinner.
Ash walks in straight from work. Black hoodie, sleeves pushed up, arms tattooed and smeared with grease. Knuckles dark. Hair tousled. He smells of oil and cigarettes. You sit close, as if that could change anything.
Dinner barely starts before his father’s eyes drop to Ash. “You couldn’t even change before coming here?”
The room freezes and Ash exhales slowly, “I came straight from work.”
His father snorts. “You look like you crawled out from under a car. It’s disgusting.”
Ash stiffens.
Jake intervenes immediately, “Dad—seriously.”
Ash beats him to it, “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
Their mom forces a smile, “Do you want some more—”
“I just don’t get how you’re still doing this, his dad cuts in. “At your age.”
Ash tightens his jaw. “Because I like it. It makes me happy.”
His father laughs. Hollow. Cruel. “Happy? You call this happiness?”
“Yes.”
His mother leans forward, anxious.
“He works hard—he’s always—”
“Hard doesn’t mean right,” his father snaps. “Anyone can get dirty. That doesn’t mean they’re going anywhere.”
You speak before thinking, “He is going somewhere.”
His dad barely looks at you, “You had options, Ash. You threw them away.”
“I didn’t throw anything away.”
“You quit,” he shoots back. “You ran when it got hard.”
Ash leans forward, chair scraping the floor, “You think school was hard? Working with my hands twelve hours a day is easy?”
Jake stands, shoulders tense, “Dad. Stop pushing him.”
Dad points, “Look at you. Thirty years old. No degree. No status. No—”
“Finish it,” Ash growls.
“No future.”
The words hit like a slap.
Ash laughs, sharp, ugly, standing, “Say that again.”
Mom cries openly, “Please—both of you—”
“You don’t get to talk about my future,” Ash snaps. “You never believed in me.”
Dad rises, “Because you never gave me a reason.”
Jake steps in, “That’s enough.”
Ash shoves him aside, “No. Stay out of this. His voice finally breaks free, “I quit because I was miserable. Because I felt useless every single day.”
“That’s life,” Dad shrugs. “You endure it.”
“I FIX THINGS,” Ash yells. “I BUILD SHIT. I COME HOME KNOWING I MATTER.”
“You matter when you amount to something.”
Silence.
Ash laughs again. Hollow. Bitter, “You mean like Jake?”
Jake snaps, “Don’t drag me into this.”
“Too late. He already did.”
He turns fully to his father, “You didn’t want a son. You wanted a trophy.”
His father slams the table, his mother jumps, “Watch your mouth.”
Ash steps closer, “Or what? You’ll finally admit you’re ashamed of me?”
His mom sobs, “Please stop—please—”
You try to intervene.
“Ash, we don’t have to—”
“No,” he says quietly. “I’m done holding back.”
“You’re miserable,” Dad says coldly.
Ash’s voice drops, deadly calm, “You were so scared to fail that you failed as a father—and you fucked up my whole childhood.”
That’s it.
“Get out,” Dad orders.
“Gladly.”
Ash grabs his jacket. You hesitate, aware of the tension crackling like electricity.
Jake reaches for him, “Ash—”
He shakes his head, “Not tonight.”
He turns to Mom, softer, “Love you.”
Then you’re both gone.