Worth the Risk(40)

“If she loved me, she’d know that leaving was going to hurt me more than her being here.”

I sigh, knowing his words are true but needing to reinforce the narrative I’ve created over the years so he doesn’t feel unworthy.

“I know, but as a parent, you have to make hard decisions. Decisions that feel wrong but are for the right reason. That’s why she sends you birthday presents. She wants you to know she’s thinking of you and loves you. She wants to make sure you know how much you mean to her.”

I can’t look him in the eyes when he looks up. He’ll see the lie there. He’ll know it’s me sending him the gifts. That it’s me making him feel like a normal little boy with a mom who loves him instead of one who abandoned him because God for-fucking-bid the precious Hoskins’ bloodline be tainted by a blue-collar worker like me. It’s me working my ass off to sell the lie because telling him his mother was more worried about her inheritance and taking her parents’ yacht to Cannes than being a mom.

We shift some so that he sits cradled in my lap and his head rests against my chest. His breath still hitches, but I can tell the tears are done for now.

“Who was the woman in the photo?” he asks, circling back to the newspaper article.

“Just a friend.” I don’t tell him it’s Sidney. He’s met her. He’s asked about her. Telling him who it was will only make him more curious when there is nothing there for him to be curious about.

“Why were you kissing her?”

“It was her way of thanking me for something. In other countries, that’s how you do it.” And the award for Liar of the Year goes to Grayson Malone. “You kiss both sides of their cheeks.”

“Oh.” His voice falls. “It was just the cheek? He didn’t say that.”

“Yes, just her cheek.” I’m going to hell. Plain and simple. Especially when I’ve thought about that kiss more than I should have.

“So, she isn’t going to be my new mom?”

I chuckle to try to add some levity. “No, buddy. We’ve been over this before. A kiss doesn’t mean someone marries someone. It doesn’t even mean they love someone—I mean it does—but . . . just hear me out.” I fumble, my own head fucked-up over seeing the pain in his eyes. “Sometimes people like each other and they are lonely and need a friend. They go on dates to do things together.”

“They kiss.”

“Yes, they sometimes kiss. But that doesn’t mean they’re going to get married. Marriage is something you go into knowing you want to spend the rest of your life with that person. It isn’t something you do after a date or two.”

“Is that why you and mom weren’t married? Did you know she wasn’t going to be here forever?”

Of course, from all I said, he picked up on that. “Mom and I weren’t married because of other reasons.”

“But you loved her, right?”

“Very much.” I barely get the words out, the animosity almost making me choke on them. “We were planning on getting married . . . but in our case . . . our case was just different.”

He plucks at his pants with his fingers, his eyes downcast. “Do you miss my mom?”

No. I hate her more each and every day for doing this to you. For being too selfish to see how incredible you are. For not fighting for you. For not choosing you.

“You always have a choice.”

Sidney’s words are right there in my ears, and I hate them as much as I need to hear them.

“Of course I do. I miss her mostly because I think she’d love to see how awesome you are.”

“I wish I knew her.”

When he looks at me this time, I meet his gaze head-on. My lips want to tell him she doesn’t deserve to meet him and know how incredible he is. She doesn’t warrant the time I take to write cards to him with different penmanship so he thinks they are from her. She doesn’t merit a goddamn thing when it comes to my son.

“You do know her. She’s a part of you, just like I am. No matter how far away she is, that will never change.” I press a kiss to the top of his head and pick another memory to tell him about, when, really, I need to address him punching someone today. “There was this one time when you were a baby . . .”

So, we sit there, letting the evening fade to night as I retell Luke stories about memories he’ll never remember on his own. Stories that every kid should know about their life. Stories that let him know how much he is loved even though his mom isn’t here.

When his giggles subside and his soft snores fill the room, I sit with him for a while and can’t help but despise Claire even more when I thought I hated her enough. Then I carry him upstairs, forgo the brushing of his teeth, and put him into my bed.

Then I watch him sleep.

I take in the red mark on the cheekbone that has the same line as his mother’s, the subtle dent in his chin that resembles my father, and the freckles over his nose that somehow make him seem more innocent.

I know that I may be doing the complete wrong thing when it comes to him and the memory of his mother. I may be screwing him up more than I’m helping him with these stories and lies and that someday, he may hate me because of it. But if him hating me is the price I am going to have to pay for giving him these small moments of peace, then I’ll pay it. They make him feel whole and loved and worthy of that love, so fuck anyone who tells me I’m in the wrong.