GOLD COAST CHIROPRACTIC, 2 YEARS AGO

It's snowing like crazy, which means Theo has a snow day. His school is closed, so without a sitter he had to come into the clinic with me while I work during the afternoon.

I'm 22 and almost finished with night school. I work at a chiropractic office and it's my goal to own a practice of my own a few years down the road, but for right now this job is enough. I work while Theo goes to preschool, and I finally feel comfortable standing on my own two feet. It took me a while, but I did it. Things are starting to feel stable for once.

I put food on the table and send my son to school in clean clothes. I keep a roof over our heads by paying the rent on time every month. We love each other endlessly. I can't ask for much more.

I've just finished with a patient and walk out of the room, washing my hands as I greet Theo where he sits behind the glass with our receptionist.

"Hi, sweet boy," I say, bending at the waist to kiss his curls.

"Mama," he says, stretching his arms up to be held. I lift him up so he perches on my hip, arms around my neck and legs around my waist. We fit together perfectly.

"Hi," I say, kissing his cheek.

"Mama, where's my daddy?"

My face grows hot and my stomach sinks. This is a moment I've thought about since before he was born, since the idea of my leaving planted itself in my head. I thought of the day my child would look me in the eyes and ask about what I robbed from them. And now, that day has come. Theo is looking at me - green eyes on hazel - and asking a question I never quite figured out how to answer.

The receptionist, Janet, looks up and raises her eyebrows. "Been a lot of kids and dads in and out today," she says. "He asked me first. I told him to wait and ask you."

I meet my son's eyes again, opening and closing my mouth like some sort of fish. He blinks slowly, his crazy-long eyelashes gracing his skin, and tips his head to one side with calm curiosity.

"Let's go somewhere quiet, buddy," I say, taking him to the empty lobby. "I wanna tell you a story."

It's lunch break, which means new patients won't be coming in for an hour or so. I sit with Theo on an uncomfortable chair and he rests the side of his body against my chest, letting his legs swing down over my thighs.

"You wanna know about your daddy?" I ask.

Theo nods, looking at me with those big eyes of his father's.

"Your daddy…" I begin, finding it hard to continue because my throat tightens with tears. I picture Jackson on the football field in high school, making eye contact with me after an impressive play. I picture him lying on his bed wearing a hoodie, talking to me about anything mundane. I picture his hand in mine, his skin close to Theo's shade, as we walked out of the football stadium. I can still feel the warmth from it, if I really concentrate. "Was very special to me."

"You told me everybody's special."

I nod, smiling as he recalls my own words. "You're right," I say, then squeeze him. "But your daddy… he was extra special."

"Why?"

I rest my chin on top of my son's head and close my eyes. As I touch his hair, I can't help but remember how Jackson's felt interwoven through my fingers when it got too long. Everything about Theo reminds me of Jackson - absolutely everything. From the way he laughs to the way he seeks me out when he's sad or hurt. Through it all, I was Jackson's pillar of strength. And now, I'm his son's.

"Because he was funny," I say. "He was funny and kind, and so, so smart. Just like you." I smile and hold his shoulders in my hands. "Maybe that's the reason why you're so smart."

"Or I got that because of you," he says. "I think you gave that to me, mama."

"Or that, too," I say, a bit quieter. I still feel guilty for what I did in taking Theo from Jackson, and therein robbing Jackson from Theo. I find it hard to attribute any of Theo's positive qualities to myself. I still haven't come close to forgiveness.

"What else about my daddy?"

The corners of my lips pull up in a subtle grin. "We met in high school," I say. "We were best friends. Then we fell in love."

"Like a prince and a princess in the movies?"

My chest tightens. I don't know how much longer I can talk about this, but I know I have to. He deserves this. For him, I have to.

"Yes," I say. "A lot like that."

"Did you get married and kiss on the lips?"

My smile dies away. Of course, the thought has crossed my mind many times before. If things had worked out differently for Jackson and I, would we have gotten married? I have every reason to believe that we would. I can practically see him in a crisp tuxedo, standing at the altar, waiting for me.

But I can't bring myself to wish for that. Because with that image, the one sitting on my lap leaning his warm weight against me would be lost. Erased.

"We never did, no," I say. "I moved away from him. A long time ago. But before I left, he did the best thing anyone's ever done for me."

"What?"

I press a lasting kiss to my son's temple. "He gave me you."

…

UPTOWN, CHICAGO, 6 MONTHS AGO

I don't let my mind wander to thoughts of Jackson often. A snippet in passing, a glance at a magazine in the grocery store, a glimpse of a sponsored commercial. I don't get lost in the present version of him. If anything, I get lost in who he used to be. And who I used to be with him.

But tonight is different. Tonight, Theo is sound asleep in his room with the white noise machine on, and I'm sitting up in bed with the laptop open on my lap, bright light shining onto my face.

I'm on YouTube with the sound down low. Not because I'm worried it'll wake up my son, but because I'm ashamed to be doing this. I really shouldn't; I must be a glutton for punishment.

I've never searched 'Jackson Avery interview' before. But as of about twenty minutes ago, I can't say that anymore.

I'm not even really listening to what he's saying. I can tell none of it is genuine, anyway. His words aren't what matter to me. What matters is simply watching his face and the way it moves, seeing his familiar expressions that I still know so well.

I'm actually amazed at how well I know them. I can practically read his mind through the screen.

I click through dozens of interviews, studying him as I go. But eventually, my eyelids get heavy and I doze off with the videos still going on autoplay on my lap.

I start dreaming almost immediately, but it's one where I don't know it's a dream. It feels completely real.

I'm with Jackson. A dream with him in it isn't necessarily unusual, but it is tonight, because it's not the version of him I'm used to. I usually dream about the version I know, the one from high school, the one I loved. But tonight, I dream about him as a man. A burly, muscular football player with manly facial hair and a chiseled face. There's nothing 'high-school-boy' about him. Nothing whatsoever.

I catch a glimpse of him, and much in the way that dreams go, we're suddenly in bed. I can still clearly remember the last time we slept together. I was pregnant, but not yet showing. We spent a lot of time touching each other then, dragging feather-light fingertips over goosebumps-covered skin and memorizing each other with our lips.

This dream isn't anything like that.

This is all hands and mouths and teeth. This is hot breath and sweat and panting, moaning, keening, pulling and positioning. The senses within me come alive as he pins me down on the bed, pushing himself deep inside and making me scream his name. I can feel every ridge of him almost as clear as the real thing.

His hands are everywhere on me, creating a road map he doesn't need. They're framing my face, squeezing my breasts, burying themselves between my thighs.

When I come, I feel a shockwave ripple through every nerve ending. My body buzzes and all I want is to get him closer, wrap him around me, keep him forever. I don't want to let him go again.

But he does, he does disappear. In the dream, I'm left alone, my body spent and empty. And when I blink open my eyes, I find myself disoriented with my laptop's battery having died, the screen gone black.

I can't hold onto him anymore. I have to stop.

…

LAKEVIEW, CHICAGO, 2 YEARS AGO

Parties aren't my thing. They never have been, even when I was a cheerleader in high school. Back then, I had the excuse of strict parents to keep me at home. Now, I have nothing. Because I have friends in the city I've made my new life in, I have to say yes to parties.

But this is one I really don't want to be at. It's a Superbowl party, and the Seahawks are playing. I'm not even sure who the opposing team is, but that doesn't matter. All that matters is that the Seahawks are on television, and I have to spend the entire night avoiding it when all I really want to do is plant myself a foot away and watch for him.

Watch for him, the quarterback of the team. My quarterback.

Theo knows who Jackson is. A few days after our initial conversation in the chiropractor's office lobby, he asked to see a picture of his father. I decided to come out and tell him the whole truth, pulling out a sports magazine to show him who was on the cover. Jackson Avery, quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks, to play in the Superbowl in January.

He knows they're playing tonight. He's in the TV room with a handful of other kids, watching the game I assume. I'm in the kitchen with the host, cleaning up.

"April, you don't have to worry about helping," my friend from work, Callie, says. "You should go watch the game. It's what you're here for."

"I don't mind," I say, setting my glass of wine down. Everyone here is considerably older than me - I get mistaken for Theo's nanny more often than not. The shame that comes with that still follows me everywhere I go. When people find out my age and see my son, they know I was a teen mom, pregnant at seventeen. There are so many questions just under the surface that no one asks, but talk about once I leave the room.

Except with my group of friends here. They know my story, vaguely at least. Callie and Addison are my two close friends from work who know the most about mine and Theo's situation. I'm friendly with everyone there, but only to a certain degree. I've become a very private person. I've told no one who Theo's father is in fear that they'll think I'm lying or that it will get out to the public that famous quarterback, Jackson Avery, has a son he's never met.

"You sure?" Callie asks, looking at me as she loads the dishwasher.

"I'm good," I say, forcing a smile. "Parties aren't really my thing. I prefer small groups."

"I feel you."

Interrupting our conversation, I hear the rush of little feet hurrying into the kitchen and am met with the force of my son's body hitting my legs. It only takes me a moment to figure out he's crying.

"Baby," I say, stooping to his level and holding his teary face between my palms. "What's wrong? What's going on?"

He takes in a rattling breath, lower lip trembling as he does. "I told them!" he wails. "I told them. I said… I-I said…" He can barely speak he's crying so hard, so I take him in my arms and hold him close. I stroke his back, rubbing in circles, trying to get him to calm down before he speaks again. "I said, mommy," he finally says, chest still quivering. "I said that my daddy's playing football and nobody believed me. They called me a liar!"

My face burns. I should've known something like this would happen. I find myself with a boiling gut of anger towards the other children for calling my son a name, and now I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place.

I take a deep breath and plant my hands on Theo's small shoulders. "Honey," I say, reaching to swipe his tears away. He still sniffling, but he's stable. "Let me tell you something."

"That is my daddy," he insists, cheeks flushed.

"Yes, it is," I say. "And you know that. I know that, and you know it. Right?"

He nods, looking off to the side with a pouty lower lip.

"Nobody can take that away from you, if you know it in your heart." I press my pointer finger against his chest. "You keep it in here. You can ask me any old question you want about your daddy, anytime. But other kids… other kids will have a hard time understanding. Okay?"

"Because their daddy doesn't play football on TV."

"Right," I say, smoothing his curls.

He throws his arms around me and buries his face in my neck, still shaking slightly. "I wanna go home," he mutters, voice lost in my hair.

"Okay," I say. "We'll go home."

We watch the Seahawks win the Superbowl from the comfort of our own couch. Theo, with his palms pressed to our TV screen, watches in rapture as his father plays the game he loves. He falls asleep before the celebration, but I keep the game on with the volume on low. The last thing I see before falling to sleep myself is Jackson's sweaty, victorious face plastered across our TV screen.

…

LURIE'S CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL, CHICAGO, PRESENT

The room freezes as Jackson comes inside. I'm still lying with Theo on the hospital bed, one arm wrapped protectively around him. We lock eyes, Jackson and I, and I have no idea how to react. I never thought this moment would come.

I see a 'Make A Wish' logo on one of the cameras. He must have been here granting some other child's wish and decided to come around and see other sick kids. I see him in People Magazine doing stuff like this all the time.

"Get the cameras out of here," he mutters, and they obey his order directly.

As quick as they appeared, they're gone. I don't say a word. All I can do is stare. And he stares right back.

"Peach?" he says.

That nickname. I close my eyes for a long moment and remember how much he used to say it. I can still see it, in my mind's eye, scrawled on the back of his senior picture. The senior picture that's stored away in my desk drawer at home, tucked under important papers and documents. I'm not enough of a masochist to keep it out where I can see, but I would never throw it away.

I clear my throat and lick my lips, arm tightening around Theo's shoulders. "April," I say, hoping my voice comes across as strongly as I want it to. "It's April."

Jackson's eyes flit to Theo. To his son, who still hasn't moved. His back is rigid, eyes wide, form leaning dependently against mine. To him, Jackson has always been a faraway figure. As untouchable as Jesus or Santa Claus. So, the fact that his father is standing five feet away in the doorway of his hospital room is probably shaking his world to the core.

I feel the two of them make eye contact and call back the numerous times I almost called Jackson. Almost wrote him a long letter, telling him everything. I wanted to put it all out there, tell all my secrets, explain everything away. I wanted the weight of my secret lifted from my shoulders; I wanted the one person I could share it with to hold half of its meaning.

But then I'd be in the grocery store and see his face on the cover of US Weekly or OK! Magazine, some new rumor swirling around him. I'd flick on the TV and see his stats on SportsCenter and know how unrealistic I was being. He didn't have room in his life for a son. He didn't have room in his life for a debilitating secret, a life-changing human being. He didn't have room to shoulder what I beared.

A silent, loaded moment passes over the three of us. The air is charged with electricity, so much so that it feels like I could reach out and touch it.

I sit up straighter. He's still made no move to come closer.

"I have to ask you to leave," I finally say, and conjuring every ounce strength I possess to say those words.

Jackson's shoulders tense, his chest puffs out and his eyes darken. "You owe me an explanation," he says, voice firm but even.

I stand up from Theo's hospital bed and leave my son's side. I walk to Jackson, standing in his vicinity for the first time in six years, and I don't break eye contact.

"Yes, I do," I say, my voice quiet so Theo won't hear. "But not in front of our son."

…

My whole body is trembling as I lay beside Theo that night. Ever since Jackson left, my little boy has stayed uncharacteristically quiet. I don't have to wonder about the reason, because I've been in the same state. I think we're both more than a little shocked.

Theo rests his head over my heartbeat, his cheek against the soft fabric of my pajama shirt. He runs the hem of it between his thumb and first finger, and I will my mind to go numb. But of course, it doesn't.

Jackson was here earlier. He was standing in the same room as both me and our son. I looked him in the eyes. After years with no contact, disappearing off the face of the earth, I looked into his face and he looked back at me. It was more than just seeing him on a TV screen. He breathed the same air as the little boy he helped create.

He got taller. Substantially so. He's always stood higher than me, but this time it was blatantly noticeable. His shoulders were broad, strong and capable. His biceps were bulging. He is so much more than the wiry, athletic boy I left behind.

"Mama," Theo murmurs, his voice barely there under the steady sounds of the hospital.

"I'm right here, baby," I say, kissing the top of his head.

"That was my dad, right?"

I nod slowly, thinking over what I want to say. "Yes," I say. "That was your dad."

"Did he come to see me?"

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I'm not sure how to answer that. I want to tell him the truth, but I don't want to crush him. He's six years old. He isn't ready for the weight of the world yet.

"I don't know, honey," I say. "I don't really know why he was here."

"Did you call him?"

"No," I say. "It was a surprise for me, too."

"A good surprise?" he asks.

That's a question I don't know the answer to myself. But for my son, I say, "Yes." I kiss his hairline and he snuggles closer, wrapping an arm tight around my middle. "Time to go to sleep, Mr. Roosevelt."

"Teddy Roosevelt won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1906," Theo says, his voice growing slurred with sleepiness.

I smile to myself and hug him close. "Tell me one more," I say.

"He was the first president to ever… leave the country while he was still president," he says, nestling his head on my chest.

"I love that," I whisper. "Goodnight, teddy bear."

I lay with my son in hopes to fall asleep, but I can't even close my eyes without seeing Jackson behind them. So I just stay where I am, arms wrapped around Theo, leaning my cheek against the top of his head as he drift further into unconsciousness.

A few hours pass when my phone rings on the nightstand, buzzing against the wood. I jump a bit, startled from the sound, and grapple for it quickly so it won't wake Theo up.

"Hello?" I whisper. I know it could only be one other person on the other end. I gave Jackson my number earlier, knowing there was no way I could avoid it. Nor did I want to.

"Hey," he says, voice smooth as silk. I close my eyes and picture us in the car together after cheer practice, fogging up the windows. His face close to mine, his hands planted on either sides of my hips, his sweet breath falling over my lips. "Did I wake you?"

"No," I whisper.

"Oh," he says. "Good. So… I was hoping we could talk someplace private. I have good security here at my hotel. It's The Plaza, downtown. Penthouse floor. I can have a car come pick you up."

I furrow my eyebrows and shake my head, though he can't see me. "No," I say.

"No?"

"I can't do that," I say, solidifying my arm around Theo. "I have to stay here. With…" I look down at the sleeping boy beside me and let his name freeze in my throat. I haven't said it out loud to Jackson yet. I don't want the first time to be over the phone.

"Right," he says, catching my drift anyway. "Right. Well…" He thinks for a moment. "Then I'll come to you."

I wait on the bench outside Theo's room for Jackson to show up. When I hear footsteps coming down the hall, I lift my head and cross my arms over my chest. I put on real clothes to meet him; I didn't feel comfortable in my pajamas. So, in jeans and a crew neck sweatshirt, I stand to greet my first love.

"Thanks for coming," I murmur. I keep my voice low. The hospital is so quiet at night, it feels wrong to speak at any other volume.

"Of course," he says, glancing inside the room where Theo sleeps.

I lower back down to the bench. "Please, sit," I say, and he does.

I'm not sure how to begin this conversation. Of course, I've played it out in my head a billion times before, but I never thought it would actually happen. I never thought I'd be in the same room as Jackson again, no less only six years after I left him. In the great span of time, that's hardly anything at all. But in the same breath, it feels like a lifetime has passed.

Everything is so different than how we left it.

"How've you been?" he asks, interrupting my tornado of thoughts. He folds his hands while leaning forward with his knees on his elbows, body language closed off.

"Good," I answer. My palms start to sweat. Why are we doing this, this small talk? It's meaningless. It's a stupid buffer around the edges of what we really need to talk about, what he came here for. But it doesn't feel right to jump into it without some sort of cordiality surrounding. "You?"

"Good," he says, then clears his throat. "Um, well, I thought I was, at least."

"Yeah."

"I looked for you," he says. He turns his head towards me, a sad smile on his face. "April, I looked for you so hard."

My cheeks flame. I feel his eyes on me, but I can't match them. I stare at the tiled floor, down at my slippers. They're pink and fuzzy, Theo got them for me for Christmas last year.

"I didn't make it easy."

"You made it impossible," he says. "I couldn't find you. Obviously."

I nod slowly. "I know," I say. "I know."

He takes a deep breath. "You hid… you… you were pregnant? When? How?"

"Well, the 'how' is easy," I mutter.

"You know what I mean."

I sigh deeply, wringing my hands. The sweat has only gotten worse. I've dreamed about this moment, this one right here that we're holding between us. Where I have the floor, the chance to explain myself, the platform to tell him everything. But now, I find myself stuck. At a loss, without words. What can begin to encompass everything I went through, everything I'm still going through? Leaving Jackson seared a hole in my heart that my son patched up. Seeing his face again only rips it right back open.

"You want to know the whole story?" I ask, already knowing how he'll answer.

He gives me a look and urges me along without using words.

I clear my throat. This will be the first time I've ever told this to anyone, let alone the one person to whom it really matters.

"I found out I was pregnant in December," I say. The words taste bittersweet in my mouth, and something flutters in my chest. The secret that I held onto so tightly is coming alive, shaking off the dust, ready to see the sunlight. "December 2009. I had planned on telling you."

I look to him for the first time, but now he's not looking at me. His eyes are cemented to the floor like he's trying to burn a hole through it.

"I really did," I say. "I tried. I came over to your house-"

"On New Year's," he finishes. "I remember that. You were acting so weird."

I get quiet. "I know," I say. "I had the tests with me. I was going to show you. I just… I couldn't."

"Why?" he spits, angry now. He doesn't understand.

"Because your life was just beginning," I say. "You had everything planned. You were accepted to Bama on a full ride, Jackson. You were showing me all these amazing things, planning your future-"

"I was planning our future."

"But you couldn't," I say. "That light in your eyes, I saw it. You had everything laid out for you. Everything. Your dreams were coming true. And I couldn't take that from you."

He opens his mouth, a ragged breath escaping. Then, he presses his lips together and lets a frustrated breath from his nose. "I wanted my dream with you," he says. "My dream was you."

My heart stops. But I can't acknowledge it. I have to keep going, my story isn't finished.

"I hid it from you," I say. "My pregnancy. I hid it from everyone. My family, my church, my friends… no one knew." I shake my head. "I couldn't tell. My family would've made me give him up and…" I pause. "I couldn't do that. I knew, even then, I couldn't do that." My voice breaks as I look into Jackson's eyes and say, "He was you and me. I couldn't let him go."

He stays silent.

"I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye," I say.

"That letter."

"I know," I whisper. "I know it was horrible and it wasn't enough. I know it hurt you. I know…"

"It didn't just hurt me," he says. "It fucking ruined me, April."

I flinch, hearing the change of his tone. I hadn't expected such malice.

"I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I could barely exist. I called and called you. I talked to your family. They had no idea who the hell I was, but after a while they stopped searching with me. They let you go. But I couldn't."

"I told you-"

"You can't just tell someone to forget about a person," he says. "I loved you with everything I had. You were my world, didn't you know that? You could've told me. We would've figured it out together. I would've helped you, damn it! We could've run away together, both of us. You didn't have to do this alone." He clenches his fists. "I was so distracted when I first got to school that I almost got kicked off the team. I almost lost my scholarship. But my mom practically beat my ass into the real world, telling me that football was what I was there for and I needed to put you and whatever you did out of my mind. So I did. I had to."

"I'm sorry," I say, finally speaking the words that I've been dying to say to him for years. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to."

"I would've helped you," he says. "We could've-"

"There was no we, though," I say. "Don't you get it? That's exactly what I was trying to avoid. If I would've told you I was pregnant, you would've stayed at home in Ohio with me. You would have passed up that amazing scholarship at that amazing school. You definitely wouldn't be playing for the Seahawks right now."

"And?" he says. "I would've had a different life, sure. But I would've gotten to support you. I wouldn't have had to spend all these years thinking you died, April." He pauses for a moment. "I would've gotten to…"

He doesn't finish. We stay silent for a long time, just soft breath and emotion passing between us.

"His name is Theo," I say. "Theodore, really. But I always call him Theo. Sometimes, he likes to pretend he's Theodore Roosevelt. Ask him any fact about him, and he'll know it." I smile to myself. "He's really smart."

Jackson stays quiet, soaking in every word.

"I always talk to him about you," I say, sounding eager. "He asked me first when he was about four, that was two years ago. He's six now. He watches your games."

He picks his head up and looks at me. I've never seen eyes so hopeful.

"He watches my games?"

I nod, a smile edging onto my lips. "He, um… sometimes I let him buy magazines with you on the cover. We have your special edition of Sports Illustrated. I got that framed for him. I bought a second copy because he wanted to cut you out on the cover and put you under his pillow."

My voice cracks saying the last part.

"I know what I did was wrong," I whisper. "But at the time, I felt like I had no other choice. I was young, Jackson. We both were."

He nods. His eyes are glassy, staring ahead at nothing, fingers still woven together.

"I didn't know what I was doing," I admit. "I was lost and scared for a long time. When he was a baby…" I bite my lower lip and will away tears. "I didn't think I'd make much of anything as a mother. I didn't feel worthy of him, I didn't feel capable. I thought I was doing everything all wrong." I sigh and hear my breath rattle. "I wanted you. Some nights, when he wouldn't stop crying or… or even nights as he got older and would have asthma attacks, I wanted you. I wanted you there with me, and a few times I almost considered…" My voice dies off. "But I didn't. I'd see you on TV and know that I couldn't."

I smile to myself, remembering one of the biggest details of Theo's life.

"He was born on a Greyhound bus," I say. "I looked at him, and I saw you. I swear I did. I was the most terrified I'd ever been in my life, but I looked at his face and... I don't know." A tear slips down my cheek and I wipe it away. "He saved me so many times."

"He was born on the day you left?" Jackson asks.

"On Interstate I-90," I say. "And he has your middle name."

"Theodore Jackson?"

I nod.

Jackson looks at my wrist, his eyes centering there for a long time before he says anything. "You're not wearing our bracelet," he says.

I look down at the bare skin of my wrist, the skin that's been bare for years now. After I left, I wore the bracelet for a long time. Years. Then, one day, I looked at it and was tired of the empty way it made me feel. The 'forever' was scratched and faded. It couldn't mean anything to me anymore, and I was determined not to let it. By taking the bracelet off, I assumed it would make it easier to forget about the wearer of its twin.

It didn't.

My eyes rove to his hands. I notice his bare wrists, too.

"You're not, either," I say. He unlatches his fingers and fans them out, studying them himself. As they're laid out before me, I recognize the map of familiar veins and the hair smattering the skin before his knuckles, but then I see something unfamiliar.

A band across the ring finger of his left hand catches my attention. I'd know a ring like that anywhere, on that specific finger.

"You're engaged," I say. It hits me as a shock, mostly because I would normally see something like this in the tabloids.

His fingers shrink in on themselves like he's hiding a heavy secret. I keep my eyes on him, studying the creases in his forehead, the worry lines by his eyes. His mind is heavy; it's written all over his face.

"I have a son," he says, saying the words slow like he's trying them on for the first time. "You kept him from me. I had no idea. I-"

Interrupting him, I pull a wallet-sized photo from my jeans pocket. It's Theo's latest school picture from first grade. He's sitting in front of a blue background, his hair trimmed nice and neat, eyes bright. His smile is wide and cheesy, and he's wearing a green-and-black striped short sleeved shirt. In this photo, he could be a mini-Jackson.

"You have a son," I say, and press the photo into his palm.