I am Adam Walker, a 39-year-old architect residing in Portland. I’m a single father parenting my 13-year-old son, Noah, following my divorce from Clare 4 years ago. We reside in a two-bedroom apartment in the Pearl District, and I’ve set up a little studio area to work from home.

Noah received first place in his school’s music competition today for an original song. This was the culmination of years of continuous work and weekly treatment sessions. I couldn’t help but feel proud as I saw my kid carry that Taylor guitar on stage.

Driving home, I saw Noah marveling at the tiny prize. Even if today was a win, I knew my kid still remembered what occurred at my parents’ Christmas gathering nearly 3 years ago. And it all began because my family was envious of my child’s skill.

At that point, I recognize that severing ties with a portion of my family was still the correct thing to do, no matter how difficult. Almost 3 years have gone, and each day I have to remind myself that not all blood connections are worth keeping.

In December 2024, I promised to attend the Christmas party at my parents’ home in Portland. It had been more than a year since we last saw the family, and my mother had frequently reminded and asked me to bring Noah to family events.

When we traveled to my parents’ comfortable house on the afternoon of December 24th, I could feel Noah’s joy mingled with worry. Noah was just 11 years old. The child gently clutched his Gibson guitar, occasionally touching the instrument case affectionately.

Before exiting the car, I glanced at my kid and softly said, “If you’re uncomfortable, please let me know. We can leave at any time.”

Noah nodded, smiled weakly, grasped my hand, and whispered, “I’ll be fine, Dad. I want to play guitar for Grandma.”

The tension was palpable from the moment we came in. Brandon and his wife Karen sat in the living room beside Patrick, Brandon’s best friend and business partner. Tyler, Brandon’s kid, was next to them, wearing his normal bored face.

My mother ran to welcome us with a fake grin. She held Noah tightly and excitedly added, “I’ve been waiting for you for so long! I heard you received a scholarship from the Portland Music Center.”

Before Noah could respond, Brandon sarcastically spoke up from the living room. “So, the family’s musical prodigy has arrived. The entire world should pause to listen.”

When I heard that, Noah stiffened next to me. I softly squeezed my son’s shoulder, signifying that everything would be okay.

The Christmas celebration was placed in a forced environment. Brandon couldn’t stop talking about his business accomplishments and the million-dollar contracts he had recently negotiated. Patrick continued to echo him, becoming a pair that made the air suffocate.

Meanwhile, Noah sat silently, periodically looking at the guitar in the room’s corner. I knew the boy was thinking about the opportunity to perform, and that was the only reason he agreed to come here.

After dinner, as everyone was getting ready to distribute gifts, my mother clasped her hands and joyfully announced, “And now Noah will perform a song for us! I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.”

When Noah heard her statement, he glanced up at me with worried and excited eyes. I nodded encouragingly, and the boy took a timid step forward, snatching the Gibson guitar from the corner of the room.

I saw Noah’s little fingers quivering as he sat on the living room chair. My kid took a deep breath before beginning to play the song he’d been preparing for weeks — a rearranged version of Silent Night with traditional themes.

The first chords boomed out, and everyone fell silent to listen. My mother beamed brightly, and my father stopped drinking to pay attention. Karen nodded gently in time with the music while Tyler gazed at Noah with curiosity.

Only Brandon and Patrick exchanged strange stares, occasionally snickering as Noah missed a note. I tried not to pay attention to them, instead focusing on the growing confidence on my son’s face as he grew more into the song.

I had no clue that in a matter of seconds, my kid and I would be subjected to a planned attack in the home where I was born and reared.

When Noah approached the peak, Brandon stood up and waved his hand, signaling a halt. The entire living room went into shock. Brandon exclaimed in a loud, disdainful voice, “Playing this horribly and calling this a prodigy?”

After Brandon’s comments, my heart tightened as I saw Noah’s face blanch and his small fingers freeze mid-chord on the strings. The abrupt attack left everyone in the room astonished.

My mother opened her lips to say something, but couldn’t. Karen drew Tyler into her arms to shelter him from the uncomfortable atmosphere.

After a moment of astonishment, Noah raised his head, his voice shaky but clear. “This is the song I won third place in the music competition a month ago, Uncle Brandon.”

Following Noah’s remarks, Brandon’s face flashed with astonishment, which was swiftly replaced with wrath. His eyes got crimson, most likely from the booze.

Brandon moved quickly and smacked Noah hard across the face. The smack was so abrupt and powerful that the instrument crashed to the floor and my kid was flung to one side. Fresh blood emerged in the corner of my son’s lips.

“You don’t talk back to me!” Brandon yelled, his voice booming around the quiet room.

In that moment, time appeared to stand still. I felt my body freeze, unable to accept what had occurred. My heart broke as I watched Noah curl up, one hand clutching his cheek and the other attempting to reach for the guitar that had just fallen to the floor.

Brandon moved forward before I could react, taking the Gibson from Noah’s quivering hands. He raised the instrument fiercely and crushed it hard on the floor. The sound of shattering wood echoed like a sad cry.

The Gibson guitar — my grandfather’s final present to Noah — was now splintered into bits. The guitar strings broke and coiled. The body burst apart, and the headstock nearly came off.

I completely lost control when I saw that scene. I lunged at Brandon, losing all reason and everything but the knowledge that he had injured my baby.

My fist flew right for Brandon’s face. When it struck its target, I felt his nose cartilage snap beneath the power of the initial strike.

Brandon lurched backward and was unable to react before my second blow hit his jaw. I felt the punch so hard that my knuckles ached.

Brandon slumped on the floor and began moaning. The wrath hadn’t subsided. I hurried forward to continue, but Patrick stepped in to help.

Without hesitation, I turned and punched Patrick in the stomach, causing him to topple over, his face distorted with pain.

In that moment of clarity amidst the chaos, I glanced at Patrick and became angrier than ever, recalling how he stood there smiling as my son was being hit. I sighed. “That’s for standing there laughing when my son got hit.”

Brandon staggered to his feet, blood streaming over the carpet and soaking his white shirt. He lunged at me, his eyes filled with hatred.

We collided violently, tumbling on the floor, fists flying everywhere. Fortunately, my father and other guests swiftly interfered, separating us.

I strained to get free, my gaze never leaving Brandon’s enraged expression. Brandon, despite being held tightly, yelled, “I will not forgive you! You’re going to pay for this!”

Hearing those warnings sent chills down my spine. I looked at my kid, Noah, who was still seated on the floor, eyes wide, observing the crazy scene. The youngster was not sobbing, most likely due to shock.

My mother immediately hurried to Brandon’s side, using a handkerchief to stem the blood from his nose. Then she turned to me, her eyes full of blame and terror, and said, “Adam, how could you beat Brandon like that? Have you lost your mind?”

I tried to relax, knowing that my son needed me now more than ever. But the fury had not faded, and I couldn’t help but respond to the obvious partiality.

I immediately pointed at Noah, who was shivering, then at the broken parts of the instrument, and growled word for word, “Brandon struck my kid and smashed the guitar Grandpa Henry gave him — and you are worried about him?”

My father, who had now joined my mother and Brandon, shook his head, clearly disappointed, and stated coldly, “Adam, you always overreact. It was just a light slap, and that old guitar can be replaced.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I took out my phone, my hands quivering slightly from rage, and stated coldly, “Fine, I will call 911. Allow the police to determine if assaulting a kid and destroying property is a minor offense.”

Brandon’s eyes widened with concern as he realized I was about to contact the police. He stared at my parents with desperate eyes.

My parents exchanged glances and my mother walked toward me with a concerned attitude, saying, “What are you doing, Adam? This is a family matter — we can handle it at home.”

I looked down at Noah, who sat with the smashed Gibson guitar scattered about him. My heart ached when I saw the scene. Then I said, “My son was hit until he bled. This isn’t family business anymore.”

I then dialed 911.

But before I could push the call button, my father interrupted, his voice harsh and threatening. “If you make this public, Adam, you will no longer be family. We’ve had enough of your unstable personality.”

Those words struck me like cold water. My father had just openly chosen Brandon rather than safeguarding his own grandchild.

The man I had always admired had just told me that, in his opinion, my son was less important than the family’s reputation.

I looked around the room and noticed Karen’s averted gaze, Patrick’s unmistakable enjoyment, and Noah’s expression. My son needed medical treatment and had to leave this poisonous atmosphere immediately.

With uncommon composure, I gazed into my father’s eyes and said, “With parents as biased as you two, I’d rather be an orphan.”

After that, I hit the call button, and the 911 dispatcher’s voice echoed out in the room, lowering the tension.

“911. What is your emergency?”

I maintained eye contact with my father as I said, “I need to report an assault on a child. My 11-year-old son was recently struck, has a bleeding mouth, and needs medical treatment. We also need police.”

Brandon then leaped up from his chair and lunged at me as if to seize the phone, but my father intervened in time, pushing him back.

My father’s face was pale. Realizing I had crossed the line, I supplied the location to the 911 operator, who stated that police and an ambulance were on their way.

After hanging up, I approached Noah and cautiously assisted him. The kid shivered in my arms, his face still etched with the handprint and blood at the corners of his lips.

“Let’s go outside and wait for the ambulance, son,” I replied gently, attempting to instill warmth and safety in my terrified youngster.

I knelt down and picked up the Gibson’s most important pieces, particularly the headstock with Grandpa Henry’s name etched. The rough wood pieces sliced into my palms, but the agony was nothing compared to the wound on my heart.

At this time, my mother walked closer, her eyes alternating between fear and wrath, and murmured, “What have you done, Adam? Do you realize this will harm the family’s reputation?”

I stared at her with an unusual remoteness. The mother who had given birth and reared me now appeared to be a stranger.

I shook my head and responded simply, “No, Mom. Brandon damaged this family by hitting an 11-year-old child.”

When we stepped outdoors, everyone went quiet. I hugged Noah tightly as I stood on the porch waiting for rescue.

The youngster glanced up at me, his eyes filled with dread and terror, and said tremblingly, “Dad, what will happen to us?”

I kissed my kid’s forehead and comforted him. “We’ll be okay, son. Promise.”

After what had happened that day, I was determined to protect my son at any cost.

While we waited for the police vehicle and ambulance, I was reminded of Grandpa Henry, the first person to see Noah’s potential and teach him to play guitar.

Noah was 7 years old when he unintentionally touched Grandpa Henry’s guitar at a family gathering in the summer of 2020. It was an average guitar, not costly, but full of memories from his youth.

My grandfather quickly spotted Noah’s small fingers brushing on the strings. Unlike the customary reaction when children touch people’s property, Grandpa Henry smiled encouragingly and softly asked Noah, “Do you want me to teach you how to play a song?”

Following that offer, Brandon’s scornful voice boomed out from the kitchen. “Another artist in the Walker home. Noah is undoubtedly going to design structures that no one wants to build, just like his father.”

When I heard that remark, my wrath rose up. But before I could reply, my mother swiftly interrupted, “Brandon, don’t say that. Your brother has a stable job.”

Brandon shrugged and sarcastically responded, “Stable? Clare wants a divorce since Adam is unable to pay for the family. That’s what happens when you pursue false desires.”

At that point, my heart squeezed with agony. Brandon always knew how to stab my wounds. It was true that Clare and I were going through a tough time, but not for the reasons he mentioned.

We had progressively grown apart as two persons with distinct aims and dreams.

While the acrimonious debate continued in the kitchen and living room, my grandfather carefully showed Noah how to hold the guitar and play simple notes.

After about 30 minutes of practice, Noah was able to play a basic tune.

That night, when we returned to our modest apartment and prepared for bed, Noah sat on the bed, staring at me with gleaming eyes and exclaimed eagerly, “Dad, I want to learn guitar like Grandpa Henry.”

He said, “I have talent.”

I paused for a while, looking into my son’s eager eyes. In our poor financial condition, with our marriage on the verge of dissolution, I questioned if I should pursue another costly pleasure.

But then, witnessing Noah’s uncommon delight after weeks of grief caused by mine and Clare’s friction, I chose to invest in my child’s desire.

When I took Noah to guitar lessons a week later, teacher Sarah looked at me with understanding eyes and gently said, “Music can be a safe refuge for children during difficult periods in life, Mr. Walker.”

Hearing those words, all I could do was nod in response, hoping that this decision would bring some good into my son’s turbulent life.

Grandpa Henry’s health quickly worsened in the spring of 2022. End-stage lung cancer gave him little time.

During his hospital stay, the once strong guy became a feeble shadow on the bed.

When I brought Noah to see Grandpa Henry one April day, he was too weak to sit up. However, when he spotted Noah, his eyes brightened. He made a faint gesture for me to move closer to the bed.

After I crouched down, Grandpa Henry said softly, “Adam, bring the guitar case from the closet at my house here. I have a present for the child.”

The next morning, I took an old guitar case to the hospital. When I opened it, I found a vintage Gibson J-45 from the 1970s.

This was his most cherished instrument, which he had never allowed anybody else to touch.

When he noticed the instrument, Grandpa Henry smiled faintly and waved Noah closer. Then he strained to say, “This guitar is yours, Noah. I’ve been playing it for the past 42 years. Music gives you a voice that no one can take away.”

Noah’s eyes widened in surprise. He gently caressed the guitar with the reverence of a 9-year-old boy and whispered tearfully to his grandfather, “I promise I’ll take really good care of it.”

After Noah’s words, Grandpa smiled pleasantly and looked at me thoughtfully. I understood what he was trying to express.

This was more than just a guitar. It was a link that connected generations, his method of passing on his love of music.

A month later, Grandpa Henry died in his sleep.

He left a surprise in his will. In addition to dispersing the majority of his possessions to his children and grandkids, instead of Brandon, I received the modest wooden cottage near Cedar Lake, where Dad used to create music.

Brandon erupted in rage when the lawyer read this section of the will, then snarled, “What? That mansion is worth at least half a million dollars, and it was handed to Adam, who has made no contributions to the family company!”

My mother swiftly grabbed Brandon’s hand, attempting to calm him down with the words, “Son, that was Grandpa’s wish.”

After Mom’s comments, Brandon snatched his hand away, looked at me with malicious eyes, and cruelly muttered, “Always Adam, right? Grandpa spoiled his artist grandson.”

In that stressful moment, I chose quiet—not out of fear, but because I knew no words could heal Brandon’s resentment and bitterness that had grown over time.

Later, when I brought Noah to the Lakeside House for the first time, he uncovered a hidden treasure.

Henry’s musical sketches and composition notebooks spanned several decades.

Those yellowed sheets included musical notes as well as a man’s ideas, feelings, and philosophy after spending his whole life juggling responsibilities and passion.

When we were sitting on the ancient wooden floor reading his words, Noah looked up at me with watery eyes and quietly whispered, “Dad, I feel like Grandpa Henry is still here with us.”

Hearing those words, I felt a rush of emotions. I drew my boy into my arms and held him tightly.

In that moment, I realized that my grandfather’s actual legacy was not the home or the guitar, but his love of music and the freedom to pursue his passion—something he was now passing on to Noah, skipping two generations who had completely lost the genuine purpose of life.

Brandon and my relationship was never one of harmony.

Brandon had always been the ideal child in my parents’ eyes. He was the worthy heir to Walker Construction, a three-generation family-owned construction enterprise.

I recall a family gathering when I was 18 and had just stated that I wanted to pursue architectural design rather than construction management.

My father smashed his fist on the table and furiously said, “What? What about art architecture? That is not how you make money.”

Brandon chuckled coldly at Dad’s comments, then said, “Just let him chase his pipe dreams, Dad. He’s never got what it takes to operate the business like we do.”

Meanwhile, my mother remained silent, her eyes troubled, but she did not dare to speak out against her husband and elder son.

Only Grandpa Henry stood by me, lovingly caressed my shoulder, and murmured, “You should do what you love, Adam. Life is too short to live according to other people’s wishes.”

Brandon continued to mock me even after I’d graduated and started working.

At a Christmas dinner a few years back, when I had just received a job to design a local art center, Brandon lifted his wine glass and laughed bitterly, saying to the entire table, “Come on, let’s raise a toast to Adam—my brother, the architect who builds things nobody wants to invest in.”

In front of the entire family, I suppressed my rage and gently finished my wine.

Clare grabbed my hand beneath the table, her eyes appearing to say, Don’t pay attention to him.

When Clare and I’s marriage began to fail, Brandon seized the opportunity to turn my suffering into comedy.

During a phone chat with my mother, I overheard him remark, “I previously informed Mom that Adam is too much of a dreamer. How will he provide for his family? Clare should have married a realistic man like me.”

Hearing those remarks made me want to rush into the room and strike Brandon in the face. Instead, I left the house in quiet, knowing that a strong reaction would only intensify the situation.

I had decided to follow passion above family custom at the cost of a relationship with a brother that I would most likely never be able to restore.

While I was still caught up in old recollections, police cars and ambulances came at the end of the street.

At that moment, I felt a mixed combination of relief, fear, and melancholy. But I knew I’d done the right thing by protecting Noah and forcing Brandon to face the consequences.