"I blamed them," Liam announced to the lake on the next visit. "My father and his father. They both developed the same condition. Retinitis Pigmentosa is hereditary, and they knew— they knew that there was a high chance that their kids would get it, and I was furious. I didn't ask for this; I didn't want to end up blind like them."

"I don't think anybody does."

With a strained smile, Liam nodded. "I was so angry, I yelled at them, threw things, nearly ran away when I found out that they knew. They knew that my sisters or I would get this, and they still took that chance. I wondered why anyone would subject their kids to life knowing that they'd probably suffer."

"I mean, there was a chance you wouldn't get it either, and I'm assuming your sisters didn't get this disease either."

"No, they didn't." Liam let out a short laugh. "I guess I'm grateful for that, but I was still hurt. And when I found out I was the lucky one to get it, I pushed them away. Cut my father and grandfather off; I didn't want anything to do with them."

Jameson didn't know what to say, instead of fiddling with the rocks beside them. 

A brief silence filled the air before Liam continued. "It got ugly after I fought with my mother one night. It had been a wake-up call, her words, the tears; the sheer emotion had made me rethink things."

"What'd she say?"

"Apparently, my father was angry too, with my grandfather; the exact same way I felt. Told me that there will be a time I'll regret pushing people away. I'll need a support group, one that knows what it's like to lose one of your five senses. My mother and my sisters could only help me physically once I go fully blind, but it's my paternal side's help, the mental support that's important. Mobility, eating, sleeping, those can all be easily figured out; it was the stress, the sudden dependency that would be the hardest to adjust to."

Jameson pursed his lips, the memory of his dying mother in the back of his mind. He had seen how fragile and dependent she was, suddenly unable to even carry out simple tasks like eating and breathing. Jameson hadn't thought about how terrifying going blind must be. Liam's life would drastically change without his usual sight. "Having to learn to be dependent?"

"They had to figure that out on their own. How to get around, how to ask people for help. Having to trust strangers when asking for directions or telling the time." Liam inhaled sharply as if holding back his emotions. "And with my grandpa gone, my mother made me see that I needed my father's help too, to adjust and figure out how to do those things. Especially since she wouldn't know what it's like."

"So your father, have you—" Jameson paused. "Are you talking to him now?"

"I haven't." 

"Ah, well, there's still time, right?"

Liam gulped, his shaking hands falling into his lap. "My mother told me that a few months before he passed. I never got the chance to."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. We all live with regrets, right?"

It was as if Liam knew of all Jameson's secrets, the regrets and hurt he had spent years hiding and suppressing. About not being there for his mother during her treatment, during her final moments. About how his addiction had consumed his whole life, so much that he had pushed away everyone and everything.

"Yeah," Jameson finally breathed. "I guess so."

"You asked me why I chose this spot, the first time you met me."

"Yes."

"My father," Liam said. "He loved this place. Before he got diagnosed, his father would take him here to fish, throw stones, even make sand castles. It was their spot. They had begged me to come here before that big argument, shortly after my diagnosis. I was so angry that I refused to come here."

"And now you do."

"He told me it felt like home here. He had grown up near a lake, and when they moved here, this had become his home. It reminded him of simpler times, one where he could remember his life before going blind."

Jameson looked out at the horizon. "And now it feels like your own."

"A home." Liam smiled, his fingers drawing a triangle above a square in the sand, a geometric house. "One that I hope to remember."