“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’ve been looking for you. For years. I wanted to fix it… but I couldn’t find you.”
“You didn’t try hard enough,” I shot back.
“I did,” she insisted, her voice trembling. “But you disappeared. Moved, changed numbers… I even hired someone at one point, but—” She stopped herself, as if realizing how it sounded. “It doesn’t matter. I failed. Again.”
I crossed my arms, trying to hold myself together.
“And now?” I asked. “Now that he’s dying, suddenly I matter again?”
She shook her head quickly. “No. You always mattered. I was just too proud, too blind to admit it. But now… now he deserves the truth.” She took a shaky step closer. “He deserves to know he has a son.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“No,” I said immediately. “You don’t get to decide that. Not after everything.”
“I’m not deciding,” she whispered. “I’m begging.”
I turned away, running a hand through my hair. My mind was racing—memories, anger, exhaustion, seventeen years of doing everything alone.
