Another threat of emotion bubbles up in my throat, but I swallow it down. My hands brace my hips as I stare at the floor, thinking of all this time that I’ve hated myself, hated her, hated life, and I never needed to. I had all the reason to keep on living and finding more in life; I had no idea until now.
“What are the chances that he will survive?”
“Mr. Campbell, we don’t have to—”
I lift my head and meet her eyes. I know what she sees—panic, fear, desperation, and anger. “What are his chances?” I grit my teeth together, pushing out the words as if I don’t want to hear the truth, but I know I have to.
“Ten percent.” Her words break. She tries to remain professional, and she’s better at it than I am because the gloss that hazed her eyes is gone and only work ethic remains. The woman is steel.
And here I am acting like a goddamn gummy bear.
“Ten…” I can’t even finish speaking the truth. “It’s not fair. He’s just a boy and I know I’m new, brand-fucking-new at this, but I’m not upset about being a father. I’m upset that I’m just finding out about him. It’s not fair that the eight good years of his life were taken from me, and I get what … ten percent? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“You have to have hope. He has to see you ha
ve hope. He doesn’t want to die either. Kids are brilliant, resilient, and pure miracles if we allow them to be. You have no idea what they can withhold. You have to show him you believe he can get better or he won’t, Mr. Campbell.”
I bend down and start to pick up the mess I made, gathering the sheets of paper. I stack them one by one, until I get to his birth certificate. I take a minute to read it, and a mixture of bitterness and warmth spreads throughout my chest. My name is on there. I’m listed as the father—that’s the warmth.
The bitterness?
Because Kendall didn’t tell me about him.
What’s he like? Does he like school or cartoons? What are his favorite foods? What’s he like when he sleeps at night? Does he have nightmares? Does he need a light on? Does he like bedtime stories? Does he believe in Santa? What about the Tooth Fairy? Is he a pessimist? Maybe he views the world in reality because he has had a hard fucking dose of it at such a young age.
I stand and place the papers in their rightful place and close the folder. My phone lights up, and I see it’s a message from Finley. Dating is going to have to go on the back burner. My kid is more important, and I have a lot of time to make up for even if I don’t have much time left with him.
“So do I need to sign anything, or…” I ask, wanting to know how this is approved so we can move on with our night. I wipe my eyes on my shirt, and she pulls out another file. It’s smaller and less intimidating.
She pulls out a pen and clicks it, opening the folder to show one sheet of paper. “Sign on the dotted line, and he is all yours.”
“My kid shouldn’t feel like a business transaction, and this is exactly what it feels like.” I scribble my name and click the pen before laying it flat on the counter.
“Congratulations, Mr. Campbell. You’re now the legal guardian of your son.”
“Shit, I have a son. This is...”
“Insane?” she tries to finish for me.
I shake my head at the wrong word choice. “Amazing.”
The door to the game room opens, and Dillion comes out, looking unsure of where he’s at. I’ll have to give him a tour, but he looks ready for bed. He scrubs his eyes and yawns. The dark circles seem to get deeper the closer he gets to me. He’s wearing a spiderman shirt and tiny blue jeans that I wouldn’t even be able to fit my arm in. His shoes are small and when I look down at mine, I’m afraid I’ll step on him and squish him.
“Hey, little dude, what’s up?” I ask him. He still doesn’t speak, just blinks his long lashes that have me becoming more protective of him by the second. If anyone fuck’s with my kid, I’ll fucking kill them. How does this happen so fast? Why do I care so much so soon? I don’t know him.
But it’s enough that he is my blood, my flesh, and my bone. If that isn’t enough for other people, that’s their problem. I don’t need more. Today, I become a better man than I’ve been the last eight years.
I can’t think of myself anymore.
“Dillon? What is it?” Maggie leans down and asks. He huffs, and he looks like he’s about to talk, but he lifts his arms and reaches for me.
I don’t even think about it. I pick him up by his arms, and he wraps his little legs around my waist and lays his head on my shoulder.
I stop breathing. I can’t think. I’m speechless. After a second, I wrap my arms around him tight and hold his head against me. I bury my face in his shoulder and do my best not to cry, but he wants me to hold him.
Me.
A man he doesn’t know. He only knows one fact: I’m his father.