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Breathe.
Just keep breathing.
Addison’s pale skin somehow looks paler as she piles food onto a paper plate, places another over the top of it, and hauls ass out of my house as though the building is on fire without looking back. I don’t blame her. I’m tempted to walk out right behind her. But... this kid.
Again I say: FUCK.
“Did she leave because of me?”
“No, kiddo. She was going to leave anyway.”
“I bet she was going to stay to eat breakfast.”
Kid’s not stupid. I won’t treat him as such either.
“You’re right, she did leave sooner than planned. She probably just wanted to give us space.” Starting my relationship with my son off with a lie isn’t my proudest moment, but I don’t want him to feel any more uncomfortable than he already does.
He’s standing staring at his feet, or at the door, the ceiling, anywhere that isn’t at me. The silence is stifling. I’m not used to it. I’m never short on words. But standing here, staring at a child that is very definitely mine, who I had no idea existed—for eleven fucking years—and I’ve got zero words right now.
What the hell do I do with an eleven year old? At least they eat regular food, right? And not that liquid crap babies eat. That’s a plus. Mom used to say she couldn’t fill me when I was a child. I ate all the fucking time. And what kid doesn’t like pancakes?
“Are you hungry, buddy?” Pulling out the chair, I gesture for him to sit down. “We can sort out your space in a little while, okay?”
Shit. The door to the dungeon is still open. Scraping the back of my neck with my fingernails, I survey the kitchen. The stove is off, the knives are out of reach, and the food is all readily accessible. I can leave him for a minute to go and lock the door.
He eventually sits, still clutching the oversized pillow. I should probably take it off him before it ends up covered in maple syrup but if I was just dumped on a stranger and abandoned by my mother, I’d need a comfort item too.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
Father.
Shit. Fuck. Fuck.
I’m not cut out to be a father. I mean, sure, it’s something I’ve always wanted, but I’m in my thirties. I live a playboy lifestyle. I guess I thought if it was going to happen, it’d have happened by now.
The temptation to call social services and hand this child over to someone better qualified than me is overwhelming. But I stamp down that instinct, at least for a moment. The kid’s probably terrified, and the last thing he needs is for the person he was dumped on to throw his hands up and say “nope, not it,” and leave him too.
As someone whose father abandoned him as a child... well, suffice it to say, that shit causes some deep trauma I’m not prepared to put this kid through. I may not have a fucking clue how to parent, but I’ll at least give it a shot.
I’m not sure I can do it alone, though. I imagine there are some social programs out there to help people in my situation, right? They can’t just expect you to single parent all by yourself...right?
One problem at a time.
Is this really happening? Am I a dad?
Matthew’s staring at his still-empty plate like he’s never seen food before. “You need help, kiddo?”
Buddy, kiddo, dude, jeez. I need to just pick something and stick with it. I sound desperate, frazzled, and basically everything I’m feeling inside is leaking out through the tone I’m using. He probably senses that, right? Kids sense these things?
“No, thank you.”
Despite his “no,” I feel compelled to help. I give him two pancakes, some bacon, and pour syrup over the pancakes before I cut them up. Do parents cut food for eleven year olds? I can’t remember how old I was when I learned to cut my own food.
Then I give him a small side plate with fruit on it, in case he’s a weirdo like Mom and doesn’t like syrup touching his fruit.
“I’ll be right back, okay? I just need to go lock a door. But I’ll be right out there.” I point out the door so he knows he’s not being abandoned again. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but remains staring at his plate. Something’s off with the situation but I can’t think about anything other than the fact I have a young boy in a house with a currently open sex-dungeon. And I know for sure that’s a big red flag with social services.
I ask Alexa to put on some music, the quiet is deafening, constrictive, and I offer Matthew what I hope is a reassuring smile.
