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The night was warm, with the soft hum of cicadas in the distance and the moon low over the trees. Only the occasional creak of the house settling broke the silence.
Chris Argent sat in the kitchen, nursing a cup of lukewarm tea he didn’t really want. The overhead light buzzed faintly. He stared at the mug like it might offer answers if he waited long enough.
He didn’t hear her come in.
“You make tea when you're stressed,” Allison said gently, stepping into the kitchen barefoot, dressed in a loose sweatshirt and leggings. “You don't even like tea.”
Chris looked up, startled—then gave a short exhale of a laugh. “Yeah. Not sure why I bother. Habit, I guess.”
She slid into the chair opposite him, folding her arms on the table. Her eyes searched his face like she was cataloging every flicker of emotion.
“You wanna talk?” she asked.
Chris hesitated.
She waited.
“I’ve been thinking,” he finally said, voice low. “About things I’ve ignored. Or buried. Or dismissed.”
Allison tilted her head. “Is this about the Pack?”
He blinked. “What? No—I mean. Just... the past. The choices I made. Who I thought I was.”
He let the silence sit for a beat before continuing.
“I grew up with a very rigid idea of what life was supposed to look like. You marry the right kind of person. You do your duty. You don't ask questions you can't answer.” He tapped the rim of the mug absently. “There wasn’t room for... deviation. Curiosity. Complexity.”
Allison’s voice was soft. “But people aren’t simple. And love’s never tidy.”
Chris smiled faintly. “No, it’s not.”
He looked down at his hands. Calloused. Steady. Too steady.
“There was a moment, years ago. With someone I didn’t expect. It wasn’t a relationship. Just a moment. But it cracked something open in me. And now, I keep wondering if I missed something—some part of myself—by locking it away before I ever understood it.”
Allison’s expression shifted. Not shocked. Just quietly moved. “Dad…”
He glanced at her. “I don’t know what to call it. I don’t even know if it needs a label. I’m not looking for some grand awakening or identity overhaul. But I think—I might be bisexual. Or pan. Or at least... not as straight as I thought I was supposed to be.”
Allison didn’t say anything right away. Instead, she reached across the table and took his hand. She gave it a light squeeze.
“Dad,” she said softly, “it’s not too late.”
His throat tightened. “Feels like it is. I’m past fifty. I’ve lived my whole life a certain way.”
“And yet, here you are, sitting across from your openly bi daughter, saying those words out loud.” Her eyes were shining a little now. “You have no idea how proud I am of you.”
Chris swallowed. “I feel... embarrassed. I should have known. Or figured it out sooner.”
“Why?” she asked. “Because you didn’t come out at sixteen? Because you had a wife you loved? That doesn’t invalidate anything. You’re still allowed to grow. To learn who you are.”
He looked at her. “You’ve always been brave about who you are.”
Allison laughed softly. “I had the benefit of a new generation. And I had you—flawed, sure—but you never once made me feel ashamed of who I loved. You didn’t have that. You had rules. Legacy. That kind of pressure... it shapes a person.”
Chris exhaled slowly. “I keep thinking if I say it out loud, I have to do something about it. Change something.”
“You don’t,” Allison said. “There’s no timeline. No expectation. Just honesty.”
He looked down at their joined hands. “I think I needed to hear that.”
She smiled, a little teary now. “And you just said the words. That’s the first step. And for what it’s worth—if you ever do want to talk about it, or explore it, or even just vent—I’m here. Your queerspawn daughter’s got your back.”
He laughed at that, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.
She stood, leaned over, and kissed his temple. “It’s not too late, Dad. Not for anything.”
As she left the kitchen, Chris stared down into his mug—cold now—but something in his chest had warmed.
Maybe not all things had to be figured out in youth.
Maybe identity was something you returned to, over and over again.
And maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t too late.