The car pulled up to the gate slowly, like it wasn’t sure it belonged there.

Terrence stared out the window at the place he used to rule like a prince—tall fences, a spotless lawn, glassy windows reflecting a version of himself that didn’t exist anymore. Or maybe never had.

His father stood by the front door, arms crossed, posture stiff. Same suit. Same silence.

Terrence stepped out, slinging his worn bag over one shoulder, and walked up the steps.

“Sir,” he said, without sarcasm.

His father’s mouth tightened. He gave a short nod.

“You look different,” he said at last.

Terrence glanced down at his clothes. Nothing designer—just clean and neat. His hair was trimmed, his skin clearer. His shoes were scuffed from walking somewhere real.

“Yeah,” he said. “I feel different.”

The door creaked open behind them. His mother rushed out and pulled him into a tight hug. This time, he didn’t flinch.

“I hope you can forgive us,” she whispered.

“No,” he replied, voice quiet, “I hope you can forgive me. There’s nothing I could want more than that.”

They stepped inside. The house was cold, too polished, too still. The familiar pieces of his childhood were gone—lost in the aftermath of the party he had thrown, a moment he hadn’t taken responsibility for until now.

Terrence sat at the kitchen table under the harsh white light, sterile and unforgiving. His father poured a glass of water and slid it across to him.

“So,” he said, more gently this time, “what’s next?”

Terrence met his gaze and held it—something he hadn’t done in a long time.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said, steady. “But first, I want to work hard to pay back what I owe. And… I’ve got a few people I want to thank for helping me realize that.”

His father nodded, a small, quiet gesture of approval. Some of the weight between them seemed to lift.

Terrence pulled out his phone. A few notifications blinked on the screen—quiet reminders that life was still waiting.

Verlice group chat: 

Genevieve: Let us know if you need anything. Seriously. We’re all proud of you.

Augustin: Take your time. Just don’t forget we’re here whenever you’re ready to reach out.

He smiled.

“Mom, Dad,” Terrence began, his voice steady but quiet. “The Verlices said I could come back… and the Headmaster agreed. He’s waiving the tuition. I’d still have to go through the reform program, but they’re working on something for special cases—people like me. I feel like there’s still more I need to learn. And I’ll get a part-time job to pay for anything I damaged or broke. I’ll send it through a money transfer app or through a bank account—and I won’t skip a day. Promise.”

He paused, looking between them.

“I just wanted to ask—will you let me go back too?”

His mother looked at him for a long moment, her expression softening. She glanced briefly at his father, then back at him.

“If this is what you want,” she said gently, “and if you’re ready for it—we trust you.”

His father nodded, his tone calm. “Just promise us you’ll keep doing what you’ve been doing. Don’t run from things. We want you to move forward, not just back.”

Terrence felt a quiet relief settle in his chest. It wasn’t overly sentimental, but it was everything he needed.

“I promise,” he said.

“Well," his mother cut in, "even if I say that—we still have the right to see our son, don’t we? We haven’t seen you in months. I was starting to think you’d forgotten we’re your parents.” There was a small smile, a touch of teasing in her voice. “I’m sorry we haven’t called much. We figured maybe you didn’t want to hear from us… Or maybe you were still mad we sent you there.”

Terrence let out a soft breath, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“I was,” he admitted. “But… not anymore.”

His mom reached over and gave his hand a quick squeeze. “Good. Then next time, don’t make us wait so long.”

He gave a faint laugh. “Deal.”

And for the first time in a long while, it felt like they were all starting over—just enough.