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“Look at you. You’re coming to terms with that quickly,” she taunts.
I glare at her.
“I want to see him.”
She immediately shakes her head. “Slow down, Mike. It doesn’t work like that. You can’t meet him yet.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I can’t be sure you would even know how to behave around him. How much contact have you had with kids over the years? This isn’t a simple matter. You can’t just snap your fingers and Noah’s going to appear in front of you. I need to talk to him, as well. I need to tell him about you and get him to understand.”
I give her a short nod. She has a point.
“Why are you doing this, Michael?” she suddenly asks.
“What?”
“It seems like you actually want to be a part of his life. I told you so you would know, but I’m not here to force you into taking your place as his father,” she points out.
I didn’t even think about that. I had no idea I had a choice. She told me I had a kid, and I immediately felt responsible for him. I’ve never shied away from responsibility.
“I want to meet him,” I say simply.
She gives me a small smile. “I think you really want this to work out, and that’s great. But before you can meet Noah, there’s something you need to know.”
Dread fills me because when has anything following those words from her mouth been good?
She takes a deep breath before speaking. “Noah is a great kid, but he has ADHD. You have to be patient with him.”
“What?” I ask.
“Attention Deficit Disorder, Michael. He was diagnosed when he was four. He’s a smart kid, a really smart one. He started talking really fast and soon enough he could read as well. But it was harder for him to understand some things.
“It could take him from ten minutes to one hour to understand a page in one of his books. I once asked him why and he told me that sometimes the letters fly off the pages or they disappear. He gets distracted pretty easily and he sometimes throws tantrums when things don’t go his way. He has these episodes called meltdowns, but those are rare. He gets anxiety, as well,” she explains, looking up at me.
I hate that I wasn’t there for my son.
“I’m telling you all this because I need you to be patient, Michael. It might take a while before Noah gets accustomed to the idea of having a father. I don’t want him to get scared,” she continues.
“I’m not going to scare him,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m going to do everything in my power to help him and take care of him. Because he’s my son.”
“And that’s honorable of you. Really honorable, but I need you to be able to take baby steps.”
It’s starting to look more and more like she’s not planning on introducing me to my kid anytime soon.
“Give me a date or a timeframe. If I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to meet him, I could actually lose my mind," I tell her.
She looks stricken.
“Mike, it’s not that easy. When I get home today, I’m going to tell him that his daddy is here. He could absorb the information then forget it in a few hours. I need to make sure he’s calm and more inclined when you finally meet.”
“I’ll meet him even if he’s not. I just want to meet him,” I tell her, practically pleading.
It’s like there’s this ache in me, this terror that refuses to go away. My father was one of the best people I knew. He was the best husband, the best brother, and the best father. And now I’m scared that I’ve failed him. I always try my best to live up to his name, but now I’ve managed to screw it up without even being given a chance.
“Mike,” she starts, “you need to be patient.”
For some reason, it’s that one word that causes me to lose it. Patience?
