I'm always going to love my father.

Host: The night was cool, the air still and heavy with the kind of silence that comes after the world has finally exhaled. Inside the dimly lit studio apartment, the only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the soft tick-tock of an old wall clock. The walls, covered in framed photos and sports memorabilia, seemed to hold the past in delicate suspension.

Host: Jack sat on the edge of a worn couch, a half-drunk glass of bourbon in his hand, staring at the faded picture of a boxer mid-fight — a snapshot frozen in time, the weight of history etched in every line of his face. Jeeny sat across from him, her legs folded under her, her eyes soft but distant, as if tracing a line between the present and something lost.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Floyd Mayweather, Jr. once said, ‘I’m always going to love my father.’ Simple, but loaded, don’t you think?”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Loaded, yeah. Love is a funny thing when it comes to family. It doesn’t come with instructions — especially not when it’s tied to someone like your father.”

Jeeny: “You mean someone who leaves their mark on you, whether they’re there or not.”

Jack: “Exactly. Mayweather’s dad wasn’t around much, right? He spent more time in prison than out. And still, Floyd says he’ll always love him.”

Host: A light breeze shifted through the open window, making the curtains sway gently, like ghosts brushing past. Jack’s eyes softened as he looked down into his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl in the dim light.

Jeeny: “Do you think love has to be earned, or is it just given? A lot of people would say Floyd’s father didn’t deserve that kind of love.”

Jack: (taking a sip) “I think love’s more like a habit — you get used to it, even when it’s flawed. Maybe it’s not about deserving it, but about how deeply it’s been rooted in you. When you grow up with someone, even if they’re absent, they leave something in you.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the dangerous part, Jack. Sometimes love doesn’t just leave you with a piece of them. It leaves you with their ghosts. If you don’t get the closure, if you don’t get the chance to really know them — love becomes an echo, and not a foundation.”

Jack: (pausing) “That’s where the pain is, isn’t it? When the love’s there, but the understanding’s not. Floyd’s dad might’ve been a mess, but that doesn’t change the fact that he was his father. That’s something you don’t just cut off, even when everything else about him was toxic.”

Host: The room grew still, the quiet hanging like a cloud, thick with the weight of unspoken truths. Jeeny’s eyes locked onto Jack, her voice softer now, almost reverent.

Jeeny: “But don’t you think that’s what people struggle with? The idea that love can be something toxic, something that ties you to people you should let go of. How do you keep loving someone who hurts you?”

Jack: “You don’t have to. But love isn’t about keeping score. It’s not always about whether they deserve it. Sometimes it’s just about what you feel.”

Jeeny: (frowning) “So you’re saying love is a choice, not a result?”

Jack: “More like an anchor. It holds you even when you don’t know where you’re going. It’s not about the other person anymore — it’s about how deeply you’ve rooted yourself to them.”

Host: The rain began to fall lightly, tapping on the windows like a soft reminder of the passing time. The rhythm of the drops created a sense of calm, like the stillness that comes after a storm has passed. Jeeny leaned back, her gaze turning inward.

Jeeny: “So you’re saying that love is more about what it does to you than what it does to them?”

Jack: (nodding) “I think so. That’s why Floyd says he’ll always love his father. It’s not about what his father did for him. It’s about the space that man took up in his heart. And that space doesn’t go away, even when the person who created it is gone or broken.”

Host: Jack’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something deep within him. He looked up at the wall, where a photo of a man — a father — stood beside a child, frozen in a moment of something pure. His expression softened, almost like a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Jack: “Maybe it’s the same with regret. We carry people in us, not because they’re perfect, but because they shaped us. And you don’t always get to choose what shapes you carry.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “Even when it hurts?”

Jack: “Especially when it hurts.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them, deep and heavy like a wound that refused to heal. The rain picked up, its steady rhythm becoming the only sound in the room, like the pulse of something alive.

Jack: (quietly) “I don’t know if Floyd’s love for his father is a blessing or a curse. But I know it’s real. And real love doesn’t have an expiration date. You don’t stop loving someone because they let you down. You might stop trusting them, but love? That stays.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Even when it breaks you?”

Jack: (looking down at his glass) “Especially then. Because if it didn’t break you, it wasn’t love. It was just a feeling.”

Host: The candle on the table flickered softly, casting long shadows across the walls. The room seemed to hold its breath as Jack looked out the window at the rain, his face reflecting a complicated mix of things — pain, understanding, and the quiet surrender of something he could no longer explain.

Jeeny: “So what’s the point of it all, Jack? The love, the hurt, the holding on when nothing feels right?”

Jack: “The point is that you’re still here, Jeeny. Still breathing. Still loving. That’s the point. Even when the world doesn’t make sense, even when people break you — you find a way to keep that love in you. And sometimes, that’s enough.”

Host: The rain slowed, leaving only the soft hum of the world outside, still in its own rhythm. Jack’s voice softened as he spoke again.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Floyd meant. He wasn’t talking about forgiveness or admiration. He was talking about endurance. Love endures. Even in the face of failure. Even when you don’t know what to do with it anymore.”

Jeeny: “So love is the anchor, not the chain.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Yeah. The anchor.”

Host: The room fell into silence once again, the rain now a distant murmur against the window. The walls, once heavy with tension, felt lighter now, as if a quiet understanding had settled between them — a reminder that love, like everything else in life, doesn’t need to be perfect to be real.

Host: And as the night stretched on, the city outside still and quiet, one truth remained — love is not always about what you’ve been given, but what you’ve chosen to carry, even when it hurts.