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Ryan Stiles slumped to the attic floor, a look of anguish on his face as he leaned against the open steamer trunk that sat behind him. He stretched his long legs out in front of him as he stared at the yellowed piece of paper in his hands, his mouth open and his eyes glazed with tears.

Ryan had retreated into the musty, seldom-used space to escape, to run away... although, at the age of forty-three, you didn't "run away" from things any more. His withdrawal from his problems could only be described as immature, however, and in that youthful vein of rebellion he'd gone up to seek out something of comfort from his childhood.

Since returning from the improv tour three days earlier, he and his wife had been arguing over the most minor things, and their tensions finally peaked in a tremendous screaming match over a broken toaster. Never mind that he made enough money to cover an entire wall with toasters, if he so desired. That particular toaster meant the world to her at that moment, all the more so because she wanted a fight.

And didn't I want to fight, too? he asked himself. I know what this is about. This is about me living it up in Las Vegas and Victoria and Seattle, hanging out with the guys, leaving her here with the kids in L.A., even when Colin brought Deb along on tour, and Brad brought Shawna along, and...

Ryan's eyes drifted back down to the paper in his hand, and he drew in a shaky breath. He had been feeling guilty about it, mostly because that two-week stretch gave him a taste of single life-- and he'd enjoyed the selfishness of it. No wailing children to take care of. Nobody keeping tabs on him. An hour-and-a-half-long improv show to worry about rather than a sitcom and a four-hour taping of improv. He just did the live shows, closed out the bars, did some gambling and went to his (or one of the other performer's) hotel rooms for more booze and more laughs.

As he'd mounted the stairs to the attic with his wife's angry words still echoing through his head, Ryan found himself wishing that he could be single, that he could walk away from his wife, his kids, his house... from everything. That vicious sense of self faded as he gravitated towards an old steamer trunk in the corner, loaded with a number of items he'd inherited upon his father's death.

He flipped his finger under the broken lock in the front and let the metal piece flop forward, then he grabbed the upper edges of the lid and lifted it with a grunt. He steadied the lid and let it lean against the wall, his gaze already caught up in the tangle of objects thrown haphazardly into the trunk.

Ryan knelt in front of the steamer trunk and reached immediately for a plastic bag that lay on top of everything else, which contained several white handkerchiefs neatly folded into squares. Ryan smiled as he lifted up the bag and opened it, pressing the contents of the bag to his nose and inhaling for a long time. The simple cloths still held the precious smell of his father's cologne, and he couldn't help but re-experience that comforting fragrance. He quickly resealed the bag and set it aside, his mind buzzing with memories as he fumbled through the other things there.

He didn't view his father's possessions very often, because it hurt too much to think about how painful a loss that his father's death had been. Every time that he did, his hands would seek out different objects, depending on his mood. He had never really taken an inventory of his father's things, and this served him well because every time that he reached in, he would come out with something that
gave him a new view on life.

Daddy, he thought with a lump in his throat, what's wrong? Why are we acting like this? No, why am I acting like this? I didn't have to fight with her, I didn't have to yell at her and hurt her, and have her hurt me back.

Ryan reached through a stack of papers and pulled out an envelope addressed to his mother. He carefully extracted the yellow paper inside the envelope and unfolded it, then began to read. He couldn't hide the bitter smile that came to his lips when he saw the opening sentences, which described a fight they'd had over their upcoming engagement.

Still looking out for me, aren't you, Daddy? he thought.

The letter went on to tell about how bitter their exchange had been, and how he wanted to take back the hateful things he'd said about her family and his feelings towards her. His mother and father had, apparently, discussed ending their relationship and going their separate ways. The thought sent a shiver through Ryan, and he pressed one fist to his mouth. What if he'd never been born, or his brothers or sisters had never existed? What if his children never had the opportunity to experience life, all because of a lover's tiff some fifty years earlier?

As he slumped to the floor, his mind stunned by it all, Ryan heard his father's voice in his head narrating part of the letter to him:



I need to apologize to you. I haven't touched you as you've touched me. I have though about touching you, but it is hard. I have lied to you, and hurt you. I am sorry. You may think that I am a really nice person. You may think that I am mean. I am both. You deserve, however, only the nice things. Encourage me to make you feel better. Encourage me to love you more. I do love you. If you do not feel it, feel it now.


"I knew I'd find you up here."

Ryan jerked his head up with a gasp as his wife's voice broke the silence around him. He hadn't heard her come up the stairs, or approach him, and her sudden arrival coupled with the emotional words of the letter in his hands unleashed his barely-controlled tears. He began to cry and as he held his arms up to her, she knelt beside him and hugged his head to her chest.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed against her. "I'm so sorry. I love you so much, I really do."

"I love you, too," she whispered. "Don't cry. Please, don't."

One hand came up to stroke his hair, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he felt her begin to cry, too. His father's voice echoed in his mind again, whispering the last line to him over and over as he held his beautiful wife in his arms.

Encourage me to make you feel better. Encourage me to love you more. I do love you. If you do not feel it, feel it now...