“So what am I supposed to do with that? Tell myself I wish it had never happened?” He let out a disgusted grunt. “Because if it never happened, he wouldn’t exist. And I would burn the whole fucking world to the ground before I erased my son.”
He locked his eyes on me, looking exhausted. I just wanted to hold him because I knew he needed someone, but I also knew he needed space just as much, so I’d give it to him if he wanted to talk.
“That’s the part nobody talks about when men go through this. Sometimes trauma leaves you with something beautiful in the wreckage, and then you feel guilty for loving that part. Guilty because somewhere in your head, loving what came from it feels too close to forgiving the sin.” His green eyes lost their light. “But it’s not forgiveness. I will never forgive her.”
He paused and licked his lips.
“I hate what she did to me.” He lowered his voice with his next words. “But I love my son enough that if you asked me whether I’d endure the pain again and again to keep him in the world…” He looked away and swallowed. “Yeah. I would. And that truth eats me alive sometimes.”
“Loving your son doesn’t mean you wanted what happened to you.”
E said nothing as he stared at a point past my shoulder.
“You keep talking like those things cancel each other out. They don’t.” I slid off my chair and sat with him on the floor, taking his hand in mine. “Your son isn’t the crime. He’s just what came after. And honestly? The fact that you became a good father after everything she did to you says more about who you are than what happened to you. You survived unimaginable horrors, Ethan. Instead of turning cold and cruel, you raised a little boy who feels loved and safe. Do you understand how rare that is?”
E let out a soft sob, and I moved to wrap him in a hug. He tried to look away from me as I broke away to cradle his face.
“Look at me, E.”
He still fought against my words and hands as he looked anywhere but at me.
“I said, look at me.”
He locked his bloodshot eyes on me, pain written on his face. I knew he’d been grappling with these feelings for a long time. That’s just how E was. He didn’t want me to see his pain. He’d become a master at hiding it because he’d always had a mindset that he was an inconvenience to people. It was one of the things I hated about him.
“You survived her,” I said. “You hear me? You’re a survivor, E.”
“Sorry,” he said, his voice shaking. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing for bleeding in front of someone after being stabbed?” I asked. “You have every right to your emotions.”
He tried to look away again, but I redirected him.
“No, E.” My voice was firm. “You don’t get to throw your pain at my feet and then run because I saw it. I love you, OK? You may hate me right now for my sins, but I fucking love you, and I am here for you.”
Tears trickled down his cheeks as he stared at me.
“I-I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know how to talk about this. Every time I try, I feel like I’m betraying someone.”
“Laz?”
He nodded.
“And yourself,” I finished softly. “E, man, you were hurt, and you loved anyway.”
He let out a soft sob as he stared back at me.
“That’s not something to be ashamed of. Stop trying to claw your way out of the guilt. It’s OK to love him, just like it’s OK to hate her. The two are completely separate issues. You’re beating yourself up because you’re connecting the two. Stop. It’s OK, man. I promise you’re perfect. Everything you’re doing is good. I know you, E. I know you’re an incredible dad. That’s all that matters. Not how he got here, just that he is, and he is safe. You gave him that.” I thumbed his tears away. “And Rosalie knows that, too. Stop beating yourself up. Please.”
His bottom lip trembled. I released him, and he looked down at his hands.
“He likes the Ninja Turtles,” he whispered. “He’s silly and funny. He wears two different shoes because he’s indecisive. He colors on the walls because he wants them to have more meaning. Sometimes we make pancakes and try to shape them into dinosaurs, but I’m a terrible cook. The batter tastes awful and is runny, and they always look like blobs instead. He laughsand says they’re monster dinosaurs, even though I know he’s disappointed that I can’t make a fucking brontosaurus for him. He’s an incredible artist, and he likes to sit and play the piano with me. If I didn’t know who his mother was, I’d think that Rosalie added something to the gene pool.”
I smiled at his description of his boy.
“He sounds amazing, man.”
“He is.” He looked at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “He’s the fucking best.”
