“Do you want me to leave you alone, Connor?” If he’s anything like me, he needs time to process his feelings and figure out what he wants. I can respect that. Really, it’s the only move I have left.
When he nods silently, wiping his tears away with his sleeve, I nod respectfully. “Okay. Just know that I’m here if you if you want to talk, alright?”
He nods again so I grab Harper’s hand, giving it a light squeeze before exiting the room.
I don’t remember walking into the guest bathroom.
I just know the door is suddenly closed behind me and my hands are braced on the counter like the room might tilt if I don’t hold it still.
The mirror reflects someone I don’t recognize.
My eyes are too bright. My jaw locked so tight it hurts. My chest rising and falling like I’ve just skated a double shift instead of sitting in a bedroom listening to an eleven-year-old tell me I missed everything and I don’t get to love him.
Okay so he didn’t say those words exactly but my mind is my worst enemy right now.
His words won’t stop replaying in my mind.
In my heart.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my forehead to the cool glass. The bathroom smells faintly like shampoo, like normal life, like something I don’t deserve to touch right now.
Ten years.
Ten birthdays I missed.
So many first days of school.
All the nights he probably asked questions Harper didn’t answer.
Ten years where I got to be selfish.
Focused.
Singular.
Ten years that I put hockey above everything else.
I remind myself I didn’t know. I know I would’ve been there if I had, but the truth doesn’t care.
The truth is Connor needed a dad, and I wasn’t one.
A sound claws up my throat before I can stop it. I turn the faucet on, like the rush of water might drown it out, and grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles burn.
I picture myself at ten years old. Like the picture in the album. The kid with the oversized helmet and the too-big jersey. I was so proud of that moment. My first skates. My beginning.
Connor looked at it and saw himself.
Because of course he did.
Because heisme.
The realization hits harder than any check I’ve ever taken.
He’s got my eyes. My hands. My love for the game. And now—God help me—my heartache.
My pain.
I slide down the cabinet until I’m sitting on the cold tile floor, my back against the vanity, head dropped into my hands. My throat burns like I’ve swallowed broken glass.
