His voice was small, and for the first time, he didn’t sound his age.
He sounded younger, like the boy who used to crawl into my bed after a nightmare.
“It means that I’m the one who stayed,” I said gently. “And the one who knows you better than anyone ever could.”
“Yes,” I said. “But I got to raise you.
And I got to watch you grow. I got to be your dad.”
“You’ll always be my dad?” he asked.
He didn’t say anything else — he just leaned into me, his arms wrapping around my middle. We stayed like that, holding on.
“You’ll need to meet him, okay?” I said.
“You don’t have to be friends or family, but maybe one day, you’ll grow to like him…”
“Okay, Dad,” he said.
“I’ll try.”
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