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“Dada!” he repeats.
It’s dark outside the windows. The kind of dead-of-night dark that means it must be two, three in the morning. I must’ve drifted off sometime after midnight. I got in bed as soon as I put Liam down at seven—after a hellacious workout, a visit to the doctor, and very little sleep over the past day, I was wiped—but I ended up staring at the ceiling for hours, unable to pass out.
I get out of bed, groaning at the full-body soreness that assaults me as I move. Shuffling upstairs, I open the door and wince. Liam is crying. Hard.
That kills me too.
I’m worried about Liam, for one thing. Turns out he does have strep throat. Meds should be kicking in soon, though, so hopefully, he’ll start to feel better.
And then I’m worried about Amelia. She did not sound good on the phone. Caring for my son is what got her sick, so there’s some guilt there. I also can’t shake the sense that I should be with her. While I appreciate the fact that Rose stepped in to help out, I want to be the one Amelia calls.
I want to be the one who cares for her. But I forfeited that right the second I called her a quitter—really, the second I let my doubts get the better of me—so I can’t go to her, and that kills me.
Fuck what Beau said. I am a piece of shit. And my little boy is paying for that.
I lift Liam out of his crib and hold him for a few minutes, gently rubbing his back. Then I give him a dose of Tylenol, followed by a good slurp of water from his sippy cup. Then I sit in his rocker and hold him some more. He cuddles into my chest, turning his head to rest on my shoulder, and I swear the iron bands of agony wrapped around my insides loosen with him tucked against me this way.
We rock. I try the skier, swooping my finger over the slopes of his little face, and he finally calms down. The bands loosen some more.
We keep rocking, the soft whirr of Liam’s sound machine the only noise in the room. It could be an hour, could be fifteen minutes. Whatever the case, I don’t dare move. Having a sick kid is no fun, but I’ll take these snuggles all day, please and thank you.
Just when I think Liam is asleep, he lifts his head. Looks me in the eye. I can just make out his smile in the darkness.
“Dada rock Lili,” he says.
My face cracks open with a smile—a smile that feels totally different from the ones I shared with Miguel and Scott in Charleston. This one hits my ears. My chest swells, and so does my throat because the fact finally penetrates my sleep-deprived haze: Liam called for me.
This time last week, he cried for his mom. He wanted her to comfort him.
Now he wants me. And I can’t help but think it’s because I stuck around and stuck it out.
Something the selfish idiot I was before didn’t have the balls to do.
Holy shit, I have let go.
I have changed.
I’ve moved on to things that aren’t necessarily bigger, but much, much better. Things I deserve because I’m a person, and every person deserves a shot at happiness.
If I’m capable of putting my son first, I can put the rest of my family first too.
Amelia is my family. No question.
“Yes, sweet boy,” I say, holding him a little tighter. “Daddy will always stay with Liam. I love you so much.”
A part of me thinks I have no business making promises after all the ones I’ve broken.
Another part knows with bone-deep certainty that this is a promise I’m going to keep. As I sit here with my son in my arms and my heart in my throat, the truth crystallizes: I’m so in love with this boy I’m helpless.
I can’t put him down.
I can’t leave him.
I can’t raise him around strangers in a place where I have no plans to set down roots. Choosing money over family is not a lesson I want to impart. He deserves better than that.
Yes, he can be a pain in my ass sometimes. Yes, raising him is turning out to be so much harder than I thought. But despite all that, being his father is a privilege. One Jennifer may have never given me.
I would have never felt the contentment of Liam snuggled up against me this way. I would’ve never heard his voice or jumped through sprinklers with him or been pummeled by joy when he houses his dinner.
I have to see this—him—as a gift. A heavy, life-affirming gift. It’s the most precious, perfect thing I’ve ever been given, and I want to share it with the most precious, perfect human I know.
