The first time Raymond cried in front of his son, it was over a clogged drain.

The kitchen sink had been slow for weeks. He’d poured vinegar, baking soda, boiling water, every fix YouTube could throw at him. But that morning, as the coffee machine sputtered and sunlight hit the greasy dishes like judgment, the water finally stopped draining.

He stared at it: a small, dark pool reflecting his own tired face. The man he wanted to be stared back, controlled, competent, unflinching. But all he saw was exhaustion.

Liam, eight years old and half a bowl of cereal deep, asked, “You okay, Dad?”

Raymond grunted. “Yeah. Just need to clear this thing.”

He grabbed the wrench from the drawer, got on his knees, and twisted the pipe loose. A dribble of brown water spilt out. He smelled rot, old milk, and something else, his own impatience.

Liam padded over, curious. “Grandpa could fix it fast,” he said.

Raymond’s shoulders stiffened. “Yeah, well… Grandpa had practice.”

The wrench slipped, hitting his thumb. “Shit!” Pain seared through him. He slammed the tool down. It clattered against the tile, echoing through the kitchen. Liam jumped.

Silence, except for the hum of the refrigerator.

Raymond pressed his eyes shut. Not again.

He’d promised himself, promised his therapist, he’d stop letting anger be the first thing out of his mouth. But here he was, a grown man, sober for three months, crying over a clogged drain while his son watched him unravel like cheap plumbing.

“I didn’t mean—” He wiped his face with the back of his wrist.

Liam stood still, holding his spoon like a shield.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” Raymond said again, quieter. “It’s just… been a week.”

Liam nodded, serious in the way only children can be when they think they’re protecting you. “It’s okay. I yell at Minecraft sometimes.”

Raymond let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah? You get that from me, huh?”

“From both of us.”

They sat on the floor. The pipe dripped between them. Raymond passed Liam the wrench. “You want to help?”

Liam hesitated, then knelt beside him. “What do I do?”

“Hold that right there. Don’t let it slip.”

The boy’s small hands wrapped around the cold metal. His fingers trembled slightly, just like Raymond’s. Together, they turned the pipe, water gurgling as it gave way.

Something about the sound loosened something else inside him, a knot he’d carried for decades, the one his father tied tight, the one that told him men should endure, not cry.

His dad used to fix everything. Broken fences, car engines, even the holes Raymond punched in drywall. But he never fixed himself. When cancer came, he refused the hospital bed, saying, “A man shouldn’t die lying down.”

Raymond hadn’t known what to do with that. He still didn’t.

The water rushed free, spiralling down the drain. Liam whooped, “We did it!”

Raymond smiled, the kind that ached in his cheeks. “We did.”

He rinsed his hands and watched the sink swallow what was left of the mess.

“Can we make pancakes?” Liam asked. “Mom says you make good ones.”

That used to be burned. “She said that?”

“Yeah. She said you always made them on Sundays.”

He looked at the clock. Sunday.

“Alright,” he said. “Pancakes it is.”

Liam clapped his hands, splashing a bit of leftover water on the counter.

Raymond reached for the flour, and when he turned back, Liam was watching him, not like kids watch cartoons, but like they study you when deciding what kind of man to become.

“What’s it like?” Liam asked.

“What’s what like?”

“Being a dad.”

Raymond measured sugar with more care than necessary. “Hard,” he said. “Good, but hard. Like fixing a leak you didn’t know you had inside yourself.”

Liam nodded. “I think you’re good at it.”

The words hit him square in the chest. Not because they were true, he didn’t know if they were, but because they were mercy. Pure, undeserved mercy.

He flipped the first pancake. It tore in the middle.

Liam said, “Doesn’t matter. We’ll eat it anyway.”

Raymond laughed. “You’re damn right we will.”

They ate at the counter, both barefoot, sticky with syrup. The radio played softly, a station his father used to keep on in the garage.

When the DJ mentioned rain later that afternoon, Raymond glanced at the sink again. The water was clear, moving freely. He thought about how many things he’d let clog inside him—guilt, grief, his father’s silence and how maybe, just maybe, it was time to let them drain, too.

After breakfast, Liam went to play in his room. Raymond stayed, staring at his hands. Scarred, rough, unsteady.

He filled a glass of water and lifted it, noticing how it trembled in the sunlight. It wasn’t much. But it didn’t spill.

For the first time in a long while, that felt like enough.

He took a sip, the coolness grounding him, and whispered, “You did good, kid.”

He wasn’t sure if he was talking to his son or himself.

Maybe both.