Dreams From My Father Novels & Stories

He took two steps toward me. My expression instantly turned cold. “Mr. Zimmer, what do you want?” The way I addressed him seemed to cut him deep. He reached out, trying to grab my hand. “Joe, Dad was wrong. I’m sorry. I got everything wrong before. You’re my biological son! “I had no idea you got into Frangelia University. That’s my son. I knew you’d make something of yourself.” I took a deep breath and stepped back, putting distance between us.

Nobody knows what to say. Then Dad cleared his throat. "Morgan can I talk to you after dinner?" Mom looked surprised. "Of course." After we finished eating everyone scattered quickly. Giving them privacy. I hid at the top of the stairs listening. I could not help myself. "I have been having dreams about you," Dad said quietly. "What?" Mom's voice was shocked. "Dreams where we are together. Where I love you. They feel like memories but I know they cannot be real because I do not remember anything."

"Are you fighting with your mates?" "Uh, No, father. I am not fighting with them. I told you I'm good," I responded. "No, I don't think you are good, darling. I can feel your emotions. I can feel your fears," he informed me. "Tell me, I'm your father. What's wrong with you?" I opened up, "Father, I had a terrible dream." He asked, "You had a dream?" "No, Father. It was not a dream. It's what I experienced," I mumbled. "It was real, father."

I don't want this, I really don't. I finally managed to fall asleep but it didn't take long for me to be plagued by nightmares. Images of my father, his cruel eyes filled with disdain, flashed before me. I could hear his voice, mocking and taunting, as he unleashed his fury upon me. The pain was all too real, the memories etched into my very being. My father, the source of my deepest scars, the one who had labeled me a weakling. I tried to escape, to run from the torment, but the more I struggled, the tighter his grip became.

Not knowing was worse than knowing. At some point, exhaustion pulled me under, but my dreams were haunted. I saw my father’s face, larger than life, his eyes sharp with anger, his voice booming as he demanded more, always more. I woke with sweat clinging to my skin, my heart racing as though I had run miles.

the father said again. Both mother and son looked at each other in fear. Then the mother spoke softly to her son. "Ilham...obey your father's request! Marry Della! I see Della is also beautiful and young! And her father is a boarding house owner, right? He's definitely not poor like Cia! Cia is an orphan! So she's much, much better than Cia, son! Listen to what your mum says if you don't want to be a hobo! If your father has made a decision and speaks like that...then he's serious, son! Do you want to be a hobo? Your salary is nothing compared to your father's wealth, son!" said his mother softly.

"There. Satisfied?" "Impressive," he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that somehow cut right through the loud music. "But you still look like you’re running from something." If only you knew. Tomorrow, the lawyers would read my father’s final will. Tomorrow, my stepmother would try every trick in the book to keep me under her thumb. But that was tomorrow's problem. Tonight, I wanted to be reckless. I wanted to feel alive. "Maybe I am," I said, leaning an inch closer. The scent of him hit me then—something dark, woody, and expensive. "Are you going to stop me?"

I sent a voice message to a pinned contact with a grayscale profile. “Mom, I nailed the audition. “The orchestra conductor said they have room in the dorms, so I’ll be moving over tonight. “I’ll be on my own now, Mom. Don’t you worry.” The text was sent successfully, but a reply would never come. Out of habit, I took out my obsolete phone and texted myself a “you did great” emoji before packing my bags. The lights downstairs were killed, and ten minutes later, a car pulled up outside the manor.

Dad proved he still had the Alpha instinct flowing through his blood and won't he race. We ate cake until we were breathless, we told stories until our voices grew hoarse, and we simply were. There was no talk of the Council, no talk of Jax, no talk of the scandal. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of violet and burnt orange, my father and Rosa prepared to leave. "I'll see you in a few days?" my father asked, hugging me one last time. "I'll come visit the packhouse," I promised.

Vincent asked. “Sorry for what?” I said, resting a hand on my still-flat stomach. “He made his bed. Now he has to lie in it.” “You’re right.” Vincent leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “The past is past. We have to look forward now.” I closed my eyes, feeling the warm Mediterranean sun. In my heart, I spoke to the sky. Dad, you can rest easy now. Your daughter is happy. A gentle breeze rustled through the olive groves, as if my father was answering me from beyond. And here, on this ancient land, a new chapter for the Moretti family was just beginning.