Not Today: A Story of Family, Addiction, and Forgiveness
“Not today, Tyler. Not today!” I hissed, clutching my purse a little tighter as I backed away from the shadowy figure slumped against the graffiti-covered tiles of the Clark Street subway tunnel. The air was thick with the scent of burnt coffee and spilled beer, and my heart raced as the echoes of his guitar chords ricocheted off the concrete walls. He didn’t look up, but I recognized the threadbare Cubs hoodie and the knuckles scarred from too many fights. I hadn’t seen my brother in two years, not since the day he stole Dad’s wedding ring and disappeared into the city.
“Cam, wait—” His voice was raw, husky, the sound of too many cigarettes and too many nights sleeping rough. He strummed again, fingers trembling. “Please. Just listen.”
I hesitated, every cell in my body screaming to walk away. I’d spent years learning to shut the door on pain, collecting therapy appointments and half-hearted apologies like loose change. But here he was, the ghost I’d both feared and missed, smelling of rain and regret. “You think you can just show up and—what? Ask for money?”
He shook his head, eyes shining in the dim light. “Not money. Just…a minute.”
I pressed my lips together, fists clenched so hard my nails dug into my palms. The memory of our last fight—Mom crying in the kitchen, Dad shouting, Tyler storming out, the front door slamming—flashed across my mind. He’d always been the hurricane to my carefully constructed world.
“Fine. One minute.”
He looked away, strumming a few shaky chords. “I know you hate me. I get it. But I need you to tell Mom and Dad I’m okay. I need you to tell them…I tried.”
Tears stung my eyes, anger and exhaustion warring inside me. “Tried at what, Ty? At disappearing? At breaking our parents’ hearts? At breaking mine?”
He flinched. For a second, he looked like the kid who used to race me up the stairs, who made me friendship bracelets out of colored string. “I messed up. More than you know. But I swear, Cam, I’m done with all that. I haven’t used in six months.”
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him. But I remembered the rehab stints, the lies, the empty promises. “You said that before.”
He nodded, silent. The subway train roared past, rattling the walls. A businessman glanced at us, frowning, then hurried on. The city didn’t stop for family drama.
“You know what today is?” Tyler asked, voice barely above a whisper.
I shook my head, too tired for games.
“It’s Dad’s birthday.”
A wave of guilt crashed over me. I’d forgotten, buried under deadlines and distractions. “I was going to call him after work.”
“He misses you. Both of us.”
I swallowed hard, blinking away tears. “He misses the son he lost.”
“You didn’t lose me. Not really. I’m right here.”
“Are you?” I shot back, pain making my words sharp. “Or are you just another stranger on the street?”
He laughed, but it was hollow. “Maybe both.”
A silence stretched between us, heavy as concrete. I glanced at my watch. “I have to go.”
“Cam, please. Stay. Just for a song.”
Something in his voice stopped me. I leaned against the cold wall, arms wrapped around myself. “One song. Then I never see you again.”
He nodded, strumming the opening chords of “Hey There Delilah,” the song he’d played for me on my thirteenth birthday. His voice cracked, but he kept going, tears streaking his cheeks. People walked by, some tossing coins, some averting their eyes. But for a moment, it was just us—two broken siblings, clinging to the memory of better days.
When he finished, I couldn’t speak. He wiped his face, embarrassed. “Sorry. Guess I’m not much of a musician anymore.”
“You never were,” I teased, the old joke slipping out before I could stop it. We both smiled, shaky but real.
He stood, slinging the battered guitar over his shoulder. “I’m staying at the shelter on 18th. If you want to find me. Or if Mom and Dad want to.”
I nodded, heart pounding. “I’ll tell them.”
He started to walk away, then turned back. “Hey, Cam?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For listening.”
I watched him disappear into the crowd, swallowed by the city. The subway tunnel seemed colder, emptier. I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling the ache of hope and fear mingling inside me.
That night, I called my parents for the first time in months. I told them about Tyler, about the song, about the way forgiveness sometimes feels like jumping off a cliff. We cried together, and for the first time in years, it felt like maybe we could find our way back.
Now, lying in my bed, I wonder—how do you rebuild a family from broken pieces? Can love really survive all the ways we hurt each other? I don’t know. But maybe, just maybe, today is not the day to give up.