She looks around the living room, inspecting it I suppose. Maggie stands and smooths her palms down her skirt, and then she walks around, checking out the kitchen and peeks outside to the pool. “Wow, you have a great home here. You all have been quiet too. Can I ask what you do to afford all this?”
“Investments,” I say simply, not wanting to give her one good reason to take Dillon away. “We got lucky. We put together all the money we had and risked everything.”
She smirks. “Yeah, sounds real lucky.”
Maggie is a smart woman. She knows when she hears bullshit. I’m not going to confirm her suspicions.
“I’ll take care of him,” I state and get up to my feet. “I … don’t have anything for a kid here. I need to go shopping, and then there’s school...”
“He’s doing online school because the treatments make him miss a lot of days.”
“Right…” I shake my head. Look at me, already fucking up. I should have known the answer to that. “Sorry.”
“It’s good you’re already thinking about these kinds of things. We don’t expect people to magically know all the answers when we bring a kid to their doorstep. You have money, a good support system, and—”
“And a criminal record with a nasty charge on it. Tell me, how the hell did you get him to me?”
“I made connections. Two of your friends have had their records expunged. I had to make a damn good case for you, but I have to stay for a while and make sure everything is okay. I want to see him transition. When I feel like he’s ready, I’ll leave. I have a hotel in town.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure he would feel a lot better if you stayed here. He’s with strangers. Just because I’m his dad doesn’t mean he’s going to trust me.”
Her heels click along the hardwood floor, and she takes a seat at the kitchen island on one of the bar stools. “I don’t want to put anyone out.”
“We have plenty of room here,” I say.
We lapse into an awkward silence, and she pulls out an orange plastic folder from her leather briefcase. “This has all of his treatment details in it. You’re going to have to go to the cancer center in Portland, but I’ve already set everything up. His medical records have been forwarded there, and I got you a copy as well. Birth certificate, social security card, and all that.” The folder skids along the counter as she pushes the loaded information to me. “It’s all in here.” She pats the thick plastic.
I open the folder and see a stack of hospital records, but I’m not looking for patient history; I’m looking for his birth certificate. I want to know if he has my last name. I’m flipping through the papers, but for some reason my vision is blurry, and I can’t find what I’m looking for. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head.
It doesn’t work. “Where is it?” I hiss, deciding to sling the paper out of the folder instead. I’m digging for it now, letting the pieces fly until I get what I want. “Where is it?”
“Mr. Campbell…” Maggie’s voice is soft and without panic. She lays her hand against my trembling ones to stop me from tearing out any more paper.
Her touch has me realizing I’m breathing hard, and the wetness on my cheeks is new. Fucking hell, I’m crying. I’m fucking crying. Jesus Christ. I look like an asshole now. She’s probably rethinking this entire thing.
“I’m—” I croak, cough, and clear my throat. “I’m sorry.” I press the palm of my hands to my eyes and take a deep breath in. “I don’t usually cry. I swear.”
“Do you usually find out you have a sick son eight years later for the first time?” The mirth in her voice has me hearing a faint smile.
“No…” I snort. “No.” Tilting my head back, I stare at the kitchen lights and take a few to gather my shit. “I’m sorry. It’s all very overwhelming. I never thought… I thought… It doesn’t matter.” I sigh, deciding to let the anger, the resentment, and the hatred go. Kendall isn’t in my life, and she isn’t in Dillon’s. I can’t hold the darkness inside of me if Dillon is going to be here. I can’t let him see that she has affected me every day of my damn life.
Until this moment.
She might be a rancid bitch, but she gave me a son. Looks like she knew how to do something right, even if she did give up on him.
I won’t. I don’t give up on the people I love. Love deserves effort, and I’m not the kind of man who stops trying.
“What were you looking for?” she asks, staring around at the scattered sheets on the floors.
“His birth certificate. I wanted to know if he has my last name.”
“You could have asked. He does have your last name.”
Another threat of emotion bubbles up in my throat, but I swallow it down. My hands brace my hips as I stare at the floor, thinking of all this time that I’ve hated myself, hated her, hated life, and I never needed to. I had all the reason to keep on living and finding more in life; I had no idea until now.
“What are the chances that he will survive?”
“Mr. Campbell, we don’t have to—”
I lift my head and meet her eyes. I know what she sees—panic, fear, desperation, and anger. “What are his chances?” I grit my teeth together, pushing out the words as if I don’t want to hear the truth, but I know I have to.
“Ten percent.” Her words break. She tries to remain professional, and she’s better at it than I am because the gloss that hazed her eyes is gone and only work ethic remains. The woman is steel.
And here I am acting like a goddamn gummy bear.
“Ten…” I can’t even finish speaking the truth. “It’s not fair. He’s just a boy and I know I’m new, brand-fucking-new at this, but I’m not upset about being a father. I’m upset that I’m just finding out about him. It’s not fair that the eight good years of his life were taken from me, and I get what … ten percent? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“You have to have hope. He has to see you have hope. He doesn’t want to die either. Kids are brilliant, resilient, and pure miracles if we allow them to be. You have no idea what they can withhold. You have to show him you believe he can get better or he won’t, Mr. Campbell.”
I bend down and start to pick up the mess I made, gathering the sheets of paper. I stack them one by one, until I get to his birth certificate. I take a minute to read it, and a mixture of bitterness and warmth spreads throughout my chest. My name is on there. I’m listed as the father—that’s the warmth.
The bitterness?
Because Kendall didn’t tell me about him.
What’s he like? Does he like school or cartoons? What are his favorite foods? What’s he like when he sleeps at night? Does he have nightmares? Does he need a light on? Does he like bedtime stories? Does he believe in Santa? What about the Tooth Fairy? Is he a pessimist? Maybe he views the world in reality because he has had a hard fucking dose of it at such a young age.
I stand and place the papers in their rightful place and close the folder. My phone lights up, and I see it’s a message from Finley. Dating is going to have to go on the back burner. My kid is more important, and I have a lot of time to make up for even if I don’t have much time left with him.