But God, he wasn’t just my child. He was ours.
The difference mattered more than I’d ever admitted. What I’d called protection had also been control. And it had cost them time they could never get back.
Dylan and his family, no matter how ugly our history, were trying now. Late. Imperfect. But trying. The past wasn’t going to rewrite itself, and dragging it forward only kept us trapped there.
If I didn’t interfere, Hunter had a chance at something resembling family. Maybe not big or traditional, but real. A father willing to try. Grandparents who loved him, even if their feelings toward me were complicated. Even if everything else in my life collapsed, he would still have them. And he would still have me.
That was more than nothing.
The drive back to Toronto was miserable. Patrol cars dotted the highway, forcing me to crawl at the speed limit when all I wanted was to press harder on the gas. Halfway there, the two coffees I’d swallowed out of habit forced me off at a service station that smelled like exhaust and overheated pavement.
With just over an hour left, apprehension crept in. Quiet at first. Then insistent. Every kilometer felt like a countdown.
Was I doing the right thing?
Sitting on a picnic table at a highway rest stop wasn’t relaxing or private, but I loitered there anyway. I carelessly sprawled out on top of the table, soaking in the warmth of the early summer sun. Or was it still late spring? It was too hot for May, it felt like early July weather.
God, what was I doing? Contemplating the seasons?
No, I was stalling.
Trouble was being pregnant and alone at seventeen. Trouble was being broke with nowhere to go. Those were storms I understood. This was different. This time the choice was mine, and it didn’t just affect me. It touched everyone.
Choosing shouldn’t have felt like this.
Only two hours since I’d left and my conscience was already eating me alive. But that was the problem with running. No matter where you went, how long you stayed gone, trouble always caught up.
A hot breeze whipped my hair into my mouth, and I forced myself to breathe evenly. I refused to unravel alone at a highway rest stop. For a moment, I closed my eyes and pretended the sun’s warmth was Eric’s arms around me, steady and solid, the way he’d anchored me all week.
The illusion didn’t hold. The sun was a cheap replica, and thinking about him only reopened the ache in my chest.
Enough.
I was a survivor. A battle-scarred warrior. One week didn’t get to undo me. I’d managed on my own before, I could do it again.
But before I could move forward, something from the past had to be faced.
My father’s letter was in my bag, waiting for me. It was now or never.
His note was a single page. Not the novel I would’ve written. Just handwritten words that would either destroy me or set me free.
* * *
James,
Time is a fickle bitch. We live thinking we’ll have more of it. Until tragedy hits and we realize time isn’t infinite.
My tragedy wasn’t losing your mother and sister. It was losing you. That was the thing I could have prevented, or at the very least tried to reverse. But like I said, time is a fickle bitch, and I always thought I would find the strength and courage to fix things with you. I just ran out of time. And I never had strength or courage.
Don’t ever run out of time. Don’t end up a regretful old asshole like me. Don’t waste a single moment held back by fear.
I let fear rule me.
I’m dying knowing I wasted years because of it.
You should always be bold. Take life by the fucking horns, or whatever cheesy motto you want to adopt. Just go out and do it, no matter how hard it seems. Trust me when I say, the most intimidating parts of life are the most worthwhile. You should always be fearless.
I think maybe you already are.
