She nods quickly.
“Good,” I say.
Then I hear small footsteps behind me.
I turn.
Noah stands in the hallway in dinosaur pajamas. His hair is messy from sleep. His eyes look straight at me with a seriousness that feels too old for a kid his age.
For a second something tightens in my chest.
My son.
I walk over and kneel so we’re eye level.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “Your mom sent me to get you. We need to go see her.”
His face hardens.
“You’re lying.”
The words hit harder than they should.
“Why would I lie?”
“Because Mommy says you’re not my dad.”
The room suddenly feels smaller.
“You’re just my father,” he continues, voice rising. “Because you don’t want to be my dad.” He stomps his foot. “Why don’t you want to be my dad?!”
Then the tears come.
I have faced men with guns pointed at my head and felt less helpless than I do right now.
I reach out and pull him closer. “Noah,” I call.
He tries to pull away while still crying.
“Listen to me.”
He sniffles.
“My life is dangerous,” I tell him quietly. “There are bad people out there who want to hurt me.”
He looks up.
“If they knew I was your dad, they would try to hurt you too and your mom.” I have no choice but to spill as much as I can to him. “I won’t let that happen.” The words come from somewhere deep inside me. “I care about both of you too much.”
He goes still. “You care?”
I’m hurt that he sounds surprised, but I still nod. “I love you,” I reassure him.
Saying it out loud does something strange to my chest. Like a door opening in a house I boarded up years ago.
He studies my face like he’s trying to decide if he believes me.
“Really?”
