Drowning Mind

3

"You just relax. I'll get some tea," his grandfather said, patting Andy on the shoulder before shuffling toward the kitchen.

Andy nodded and leaned back into the old, familiar sofa. The fabric had worn down over the years, but it still had that comforting give beneath him, as though the cushions remembered his shape from childhood. He let out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. The silence of the farmhouse wrapped around him like a blanket, broken only by the soft creak of the wooden floorboards as his grandfather moved through the house, and the steady ticking of an antique clock mounted on the wall. Each tick felt like a small reminder of the slow, inevitable passage of time—yet here, time seemed to move differently, more gently.

For a brief moment, Andy closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. Maybe being here, away from everything, away from his father's constant pressure, was just what he needed. The weight on his chest lifted ever so slightly, and for the first time in months, he thought that maybe things could quiet down. Maybe the silence could help him forget.

But the peace was short-lived. His phone vibrated sharply against the cushion, cutting through the calm. He didn’t want to check it—he already knew who it was. With a heavy sigh, he reached for the phone and saw the notification.

Another message from his father.

Where the hell are you? Why don't you pick up the phone?!

Andy groaned, his jaw clenching as he read the message. His father's impatience, his relentless barrage of questions, had become a constant source of irritation. Ever since the divorce, it had only gotten worse—every call, every text, a mixture of anger, disappointment, and demands. There was no space to breathe, no space to heal. His father didn’t understand. Hell, maybe he didn’t even want to.

The anger simmered beneath Andy’s skin, rising quickly as he stared at the glowing screen. How could his father not see that all this pressure, this constant badgering, was only making things worse? Every message was like a reminder of his failures, like pouring salt on an open wound. Wasn't the divorce enough of a punishment?

He gritted his teeth and locked the screen, tossing the phone down on the couch beside him. He couldn’t deal with his father’s bullshit right now. Not here. Not in this place that was supposed to be an escape. The last thing he needed was to be dragged back into that constant loop of disappointment.

Andy rubbed his temples and tried to shake off the rising frustration. The calm of the farmhouse settled around him again, though it felt more fragile now, as though it could be broken by another text or call. He stared at the familiar space, taking in the old photographs on the walls, the heavy oak furniture that had been there for as long as he could remember. This house had always been a sanctuary. It needed to be one now more than ever.

A few minutes later, his grandfather returned, carrying two cups and a teapot on a small tray. Andy noticed the cups immediately. One of them was the teddy bear cup he had used as a kid. The sight of it made something in his chest tighten. He had forgotten about that old cup, but seeing it now stirred memories—simpler, happier times when the weight of the world hadn’t yet settled on his shoulders.

His grandfather set the tray down on the coffee table with a gentle clink, the tea’s warm, herbal scent filling the room. He poured a cup for Andy and handed him the teddy bear cup, smiling softly. "Here you go, son. Thought you might appreciate an old friend."

Andy took the cup, the worn ceramic warm against his hands. He stared down at the childish design for a moment, a small, sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I didn’t think you still had this," he said quietly.

"Some things are worth holding on to," his grandfather replied, settling into the chair across from him. He sipped his own tea, his eyes never leaving Andy’s face. "Just like some things are worth letting go of."

Andy didn’t need to ask what he meant. His grandfather always had a way of cutting through the noise, getting to the heart of things without saying much at all. Letting go. It sounded easy enough, but the weight of his failures clung to him like a second skin, impossible to shed.

As the warmth of the tea spread through his chest, Andy glanced over at his phone again, its black screen now silent and still. The anger he felt earlier was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but sitting here in the farmhouse with his grandfather, it felt a little easier to bear.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to let go.