The Two Paths Of Jude And Dave

The weight of blame

Chapter Two: The Weight of Blame

The morning sun crawled lazily across the worn curtains of the small apartment, casting streaks of gold over the mess scattered across the floor—empty bottles, crumpled cigarette packs, and a jacket that still smelled of rain and regret. Jude stirred on the couch, his head pounding like a drum.

He rubbed his temples, trying to remember how he’d ended up home again. His mind was a blur of flashing lights and laughter that wasn’t his. The house was silent, except for the soft hum of the fridge and the rhythmic creak of the ceiling fan.

From the kitchen came the faint clatter of plates. His mother was up.

Jude dragged himself up, groaning. He knew the routine—the quiet breakfast, the gentle words, the disappointment hidden behind her eyes.

“Good morning,” Clara said when he entered the kitchen. She didn’t look at him. She never started the conversation with blame.

Jude scratched his head. “Morning.”

She set a plate before him—scrambled eggs, bread, and tea. “Eat something,” she said softly.

He sat down, staring at the food without touching it. “You’re not gonna ask where I was?”

Clara sighed, finally meeting his eyes. “Would it change anything if I did?”

The words hit harder than any shout could have. Jude dropped his gaze. “You think I’m a failure too, don’t you?”

“I think you’re lost,” she said. “And blaming your father won’t help you find your way.”

Jude’s jaw tightened. “He’s the reason everything’s like this. If he’d been a better man, maybe I wouldn’t have turned out this way.”

“Maybe,” she said quietly. “But you’re not him, Jude. You’re still young enough to choose differently.”

He scoffed. “Easy for you to say.”

Clara’s hands trembled slightly as she picked up her cup. “It’s not easy, son. It’s just the truth.”

The silence between them thickened until the sound of a phone buzzing broke it. Clara reached for it—Dave’s name glowed on the screen.

Her face brightened immediately. “Dave, sweetheart! How are you?”

Jude looked away, a bitter taste filling his mouth as he heard his mother’s soft laughter.

When she handed the phone to him, he hesitated. “He wants to talk to you,” she said gently.

Reluctantly, Jude pressed the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Hey, man,” Dave’s voice came through, cheerful but cautious. “How’s everything?”

Jude’s lips curved into a smirk that wasn’t quite a smile. “Living the dream.”

Dave chuckled softly. “Mom says you’ve been working on something. That true?”

“She says a lot of things.”

There was a pause. “Look, Jude,” Dave said, his tone careful, “I know things haven’t been easy at home, but I believe you can still turn it around. You’re not Dad.”

Jude’s temper flared. “Stop saying that like you know me. You left, Dave. You’re out there living your perfect life while I’m stuck here cleaning up his mess.”

“I didn’t leave you,” Dave said, his voice steady. “I just decided not to stay stuck in the same pain. You can do that too.”

Jude ended the call without replying. The phone slipped from his hand and hit the table with a dull thud.

Clara didn’t scold him. She just looked at her son with a sadness that words couldn’t reach.

Weeks passed, and Jude’s world shrank further. He bounced from job to job, his temper and late nights costing him every opportunity that came his way. The small town began to whisper—“Michael’s boy’s no better than his father.”

At first, he brushed it off, laughing with the same carelessness his father once wore like armor. But when he caught his reflection in a shop window—hollow eyes, unshaven chin, a posture bent with defeat—he couldn’t escape the truth. He was becoming the very man he despised.

One night, after another argument with his father, Jude stormed out again. The street was empty except for the glow of streetlamps and the faint hum of crickets. He walked without direction until he found himself by the bridge overlooking the river.

The water below shimmered with moonlight, calm and uncaring. Jude leaned against the railing, his chest heavy.

“What am I even doing?” he muttered.

From behind, a voice startled him. “You’re thinking too loud again.”

He turned to see Mia, a girl he’d known since high school. She was one of the few people who still talked to him. Her eyes were soft but steady, the kind that saw through the walls people built.

“Mia,” he said, forcing a smile. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I could say the same. You look like you’ve been through a storm.”

“Feels like I live in one,” he said bitterly.

She leaned beside him on the railing. “You’re still blaming your dad?”

“Who else?” he snapped. “He’s the reason we grew up in chaos. He made Mom cry every night. He taught me nothing but anger.”

Mia nodded slowly. “Yeah, he hurt you. But you’re the one holding on to it now.”

Jude frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re using him as an excuse not to change.”

Her words hit harder than she intended. He turned away, jaw tight. “You sound like Dave.”

“Maybe because he’s right,” she said softly. “You can’t fix what he did, Jude. But you can stop it from defining you.”

He didn’t answer. The wind blew through the night, carrying the smell of rain. For a moment, Jude felt the world pause—the quiet river, the rustling leaves, Mia’s eyes on him. Something in his chest cracked open, but he pushed it back down.

“Maybe someday,” he muttered, walking away.

Mia watched him go, whispering into the dark, “I hope that someday isn’t too late.”

While Jude battled his own shadows, Dave was living a different rhythm. University life had shaped him into a man of focus and quiet ambition. He studied architecture, drawn to the idea of creating things that lasted—solid, beautiful structures that didn’t crumble like his childhood home.

Every success he achieved, though, carried a twinge of guilt. He thought of Jude often—of the boy who used to race him through muddy fields, of the laughter they shared before bitterness divided them.

When he received an award for excellence in his third year, the first thing he did was call home.

“Mom,” he said, excitement in his voice, “I did it!”

Clara’s joy was immediate. “Oh, Dave, I’m so proud of you.”

But her next words dimmed his smile. “I wish your brother could see you now.”

“I’ll make him see,” Dave said quietly. “He’s not lost, Mom. He’s just… stuck.”

That same week, back home, Jude’s father fell ill.

It wasn’t sudden—years of drinking had been slowly corroding him—but this time was worse. Clara rushed him to the hospital, her hands trembling as she signed papers.

When Jude arrived, he stood by the doorway, staring at the frail figure on the bed. Michael looked smaller somehow, his once booming voice reduced to shallow breaths.

Clara touched Jude’s shoulder. “He’s asking for you.”

Jude’s throat tightened. “Why me?”

“Because you’re his son,” she said simply.

He hesitated, then stepped closer. The smell of antiseptic filled his nose. His father’s eyes fluttered open.

“Jude…” Michael’s voice was weak, rough like gravel. “You… look just like I used to.”

Jude clenched his fists. “Don’t say that.”

A faint smile crossed the old man’s lips. “Don’t waste your life… hating me. It’ll eat you alive.”

Jude felt something twist in his chest. “You don’t get to say that now. You ruined everything.”

Michael’s eyes closed slowly, as if the weight of his son’s words was too much to bear. “Maybe I did,” he whispered. “But you’re the only one who can make it right.”

Those were the last words he spoke before the monitor’s rhythm slowed.

When the flatline came, Jude just stood there, numb. His mother wept quietly beside him, and for the first time, he didn’t move to comfort her.

He felt empty—like anger had finally burned everything inside him to ash.

That night, Jude sat alone outside the hospital, rain washing over the pavement. The world felt both too quiet and too loud.

He wanted to cry but couldn’t. He wanted to forgive but didn’t know how.

Then, his phone buzzed. It was a message from Dave:

> “I’m coming home this weekend. We’ll get through this together.”

Jude stared at the screen for a long time before replying:

> “Don’t bother. I’ve got nothing left worth saving.”

He tossed the phone aside and buried his face in his hands.

Somewhere deep down, though, beneath all the guilt and blame, a single thought refused to die:

maybe his father had been right. Maybe the only way to make peace with the past was to stop living in its shadow.