Chapter 7 - THE BOY WHO WOULDN'T CALL ME DAD
Three boys started calling me Dad within months.
Milo first.
Then Micah.
Then Mason.
Max refused.
He called me Adrian.
Everyone told me not to worry.
So naturally I worried constantly.
I never corrected him.
Never asked.
Then one afternoon, I attended his school science fair.
He had built a model bridge.
I arrived late because of a board meeting.
Max saw me.
His face fell before I reached him.
“You weren't coming.”
“I said I would.”
“People say things.”
That sentence was not about a science fair.
I crouched.
“Your mom told you I'd come back six years ago, didn't she?”
He nodded.
“She said maybe you didn't know.”
My chest hurt.
“And then?”
“You didn't.”
“I know.”
“You say Grandma stopped you.”
“Yes.”
“But you're big.”
I almost smiled.
“Yes.”
“And rich.”
“Unfortunately.”
“So how could somebody stop you?”
Hard question.
“Because I didn't know there was somewhere I needed to go.”
Max looked unconvinced.
I continued.
“But you're allowed to be angry.”
“I'm not.”
“You look angry.”
“I'm six.”
Fair.
Then:
“I don't have to call you Dad.”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
He stared.
“You'd still come?”
That was the question.
“Yes.”
“Even if I call you Adrian?”
“Yes.”
He thought.
Then handed me tape.
“My bridge broke.”
We repaired it.
Three weeks later, he shouted “Dad!” across a playground.
I turned so fast I nearly fell.
He wanted juice.
Nothing dramatic.
Perfect.
---
Meanwhile, Mara completed certification to become a pediatric respiratory therapist.
She had abandoned nursing school during pregnancy.
I offered to pay.
She refused.
Then reconsidered.
“Loan.”
“Fine.”
“Written agreement.”
“Fine.”
“No interest.”
“That's not how loans—”
“Adrian.”
“No interest.”
She graduated eighteen months later.
The boys screamed louder than anyone at the ceremony.
I might have been louder.
Mara looked at us from the stage.
For one second, I saw the twenty-three-year-old woman I lost.
Then I saw the thirty-year-old woman who survived without me.
I loved both.
But only one existed now.
---
After graduation, we kissed.
For the first time in six years.
No ballroom.
No family strategy.
No ring.
No permission.
Just two people standing beside a minivan while four boys argued about ice cream.
Mara pulled away.
“This is probably a terrible idea.”
“Historically, we're excellent at those.”
May you like
She laughed.
Then kissed me again.
