Glass Shard Beach, NJ
April 25, 1970

"I don't need you! I don't need anyone! I'll make millions and you'll rue the day you turned your back on me!"

Ford clutches the pamphlet in his hand tighter against the sound of tires squealing.

"Filbrick! What did you just do?" Ma's voice drifts up from downstairs but it's drawing nearer as she speaks. Ford hurries into his bedroom and closes the door before he can be drawn into his parent's brewing argument. "Did you just kick our son out onto the street?"

"He'll be fine," Filbrick dismisses, still angry and loud - though perhaps the latter is simply a byproduct of Rachel's continued crying. The sound of the stairs creaking is almost lost under all the other competing noises filling the too-small apartment. "Focus on taking care of the baby."

"Our granddaughter will quiet down once the yelling is over," Ma retorts, obviously in no hurry to stop the aforementioned yelling, "The one I'm worried about right now is my baby!"

"The boy is nearly eighteen, Maude! He needs to grow up sometime!"

"And how is he supposed to do that without his father to show him how?" Maude screams back.

"He'll be back," Filbrick asserts with the same unshakable confidence he always has, "A few uncomfortable nights spent in his car and that knucklehead will show back up on the doorstep with his tail tucked between his legs. Might even finally wise up to how good he has it here."

Ma sputters. "You told him to make millions of dollars! That he wasn't welcome until he did! You can't seriously expect he'll come back after that!"

"Maude, the boy hasn't listened to a word I've told him for years! He isn't about to start now! He'll be back."

"You'd better be right about this, Filbrick," the woman hisses.

And that, apparently, is the end of the discussion. A few seconds later Rachel's wailing tapers off and Ford can hear his mother's footfalls as she passes by on her way to her own bedroom. His father's heavier tread, however, pauses on the other side of his door.

Three solid knocks land on the shut door. "Stanford?" Filbrick calls and the teen struggles for a second with how to answer. He decides it doesn't really matter, his father is only knocking first as a courtesy after all, and he doesn't trust his voice at the moment. Another few seconds of silence pass, and then, true to form, "I'm coming in."

Ford watches as the door opens to reveal his father's broad form. Filbrick takes one look at him and states, "Crying won't help."

Ford swipes a hand over his cheeks but the tears keep falling. "I, I can't get it to, to stop," he confesses.

Filbrick's mouth presses into a thin line. "Hm," the man utters a grumbling hum before moving further into the twins' bedroom. He glances around the room. Ford is already settled in the lone desk's chair. The man eventually sits down on the edge of Stanley's unmade bunk, the mattress dipping under his weight. "You already know we can't afford to send you to that fancy school without that scholarship."

"I, I know," Ford gasps, wrapping his arms around his belly. It's not only the tears that won't stop. He can't get his breathing under control, either, and it feels like he's going to suffocate as his diaphragm spasms without rhythm. "I-it was a full ride or b-bust," he chokes back another sob as he speaks, "a-and it w-went bust." He hadn't even gotten a chance to fail on his own. Stanley had taken that from him.

He doesn't know when his father started moving but suddenly the man is in front of him, down on one knee and hands holding on to his arms near the shoulders. "Steady, boy," Filbrick says, "Deep breaths." Ford obediently attempts to draw in deeper breaths.

It's impossible, but the teen would swear that the oxygen has been stripped from the air in the room, leaving behind only the nitrogen, argon, and carbon dioxide for him to asphyxiate on as he gasps uselessly. "W-why? Why would he, would he do-o that?" he questions, "Why couldn't he just le-et me h-have this?"

Filbrick shifts, glancing at the empty doorway. "Your mother is better with these things," the man grumbles.

Ford shakes his head fervently and uses one hand to grasp the lapel of Filbrick's suit. His mother will be comforting and supportive but he's known from a young age that her words aren't to be trusted. His father may be blunt and harsh but at least his words are honest. Ford can't stand the thought of any more lies tonight. "Please."

His father sighs, a near soundless release of air and subtle drop of his shoulders. "Because you're his lifeline and the knucklehead knows it," Filbrick says, "Because he doesn't know how to survive on his own and he doesn't want to try learning. Maybe he's scared of it." The man shrugs. "This was always going to happen somehow. He can't keep riding your coattails his entire life. Stanley needs to learn how to be his own man at some point. It may as well start now." There's a pause. "I'm sorry, Son."

Later, Ford will be unable to pinpoint why those last three words tear away what little composure he has left - and embarrassed, besides - but, in the present, the young man can only cling to his father as his sobs overwhelm him.

Filbrick remains stiff even after his initial rigidity in response to the unexpected embrace eases. After a moment's hesitation, one of his hands migrates to rest at the midpoint of Stanford's back while the other finds its way to the younger Pines' hair. The pawnshop owner stays silent as his son grieves a lost opportunity and a splintered relationship.

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