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“You heard me. Type out an official memo. I won’t be back at work in person for at least another three months.”
I hang up immediately after and drive home. Three months. I have three months to meet and get to know my son. My stomach roils at the thought. I have no idea how to do this. And there’s no doubt in my mind that I’m going to fuck this up.
I send a quick text to Christine asking her to meet up and head home to change, but I run into my mom as soon as I step into the house. She takes one look at me and frowns before leading me into the kitchen. She asks the chef to start preparing dinner then turns to me.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, her green eyes peering at me.
“Nothing,’ I mumble.
“Mike, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. You’re pale and sweaty,” she says, using her hand to wipe some perspiration I hadn’t even noticed from my forehead.
Of course I’m sweaty, Mom. Turns out you’re a grandmother. Isn’t that wonderful?
I briefly consider telling her everything, but a conversation with my mom isn’t what’s important right now. I need to talk to Christine.
“I promise I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can. But I need to go now, please.”
“No, I've noticed how everyone tiptoes around me since your father died. But I’m your mother. I’m here to protect you and I’ll always love you. No matter what.”
“I know, Mom,” I say softly, leaning to place a kiss on her cheek. “We’ll talk later.”
I walk out of the kitchen and head up to my room. My aunt Mel finds me just as I’m about to head out.
“Well?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
“He’s mine,” I tell her.
She lets out a harsh breath. “It’ll be fine, Mikey,” she assures me.
But she doesn’t look so sure. It won’t be fine. There’s no way in hell anything’s going to be fine.
“Mom was bugging me about it,” I say gruffly. “She knows something’s up.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing. I still don’t know how we’re going to explain all this.”
“First things first, your son. I’ll talk to Samantha.”
“Right. I need to meet him. I’ll see you later, Mel.”
I leave the house and drive over to the coffee shop.
“I’m guessing the results are in. You look terrible,” Christine says in greeting as she gestures for me to take a seat in front of her. She gets me a cup of coffee and places it on the table. I mutter a thank you and drink a large gulp.
“He’s my son,” I say quietly.
The words still don’t feel completely real.
“Of course he is. And I would just like to point out that your refusal to believe it really hurt. Do you really think so little of me?”
“My refusal to believe has to do with the fact that we’re talking about a little boy. An actual child. A child that belongs to me.”
She tits her head and narrows her eyes.
“First off, children are not objects. They do not belong to anybody. But if he does, it’s me. I’m his mom.”
“I’m his father!”
