If Only I Knew Then
Harvey flings open the doors to his walk-in closet, the meticulously ordered space descending into chaos as he tears through it. Shoes topple to the floor, ties slide out of their racks, and perfectly pressed shirts are pulled down one after another, tossed aside as he digs deeper into the back of the shelves.
From the bedroom doorway, Paula stands frozen for a moment before stepping forward, her voice cautious. "Harvey, what are you doing?"
"Looking for something," he says, not even glancing at her as he yanks another shelf open.
"For what?"
"I don't know where it is," he mutters, shutting the shelf and turning to rifle through a drawer. "Just… something, Paula."
Paula watches him stride out of the bedroom, confusion flickering across her face as he moves with the kind of purpose that makes it clear this isn't about just something.
She follows him as he crosses the living area into the guest room, where he immediately heads for the storage boxes stacked neatly against the far wall. He drags the top one onto the bed and rips the lid off, tossing items onto the comforter as he searches.
"Harvey," she tries again, this time firmer, "what's going on? Why are you doing this?"
Ignoring her, he pulls the second box off the stack and flips open the lid. He sorts through its contents—papers, a few books, a framed photo he doesn't even glance at. He shoves it all aside, frustration clear in every movement.
"Damn it," he curses, before moving to another box.
"Hey…" She reaches out, her hand hovering near his arm. "Talk to me. You're not acting like yourself. What could be so important?"
He pauses just long enough to shoot her a sharp look over his shoulder. "It's none of your concern."
"None of my concern?" Her arms drop to her sides, incredulity flashing in her eyes. "You're tearing this place apart like it's the FBI looking for evidence. Do you even hear yourself right now?"
"I don't need a lecture, Paula," he barks. He catches the flicker of hurt in her expression but doesn't have the energy to apologize. Not now.
He grabs another box and opens it, shoving aside its contents. His frustration is mounting, visible in the way his jaw tightens and his breathing becomes uneven. He stops, closing his eyes for a beat, then reopens them and resumes digging. When the last box comes up empty, Harvey slams the lid back on and exhales sharply. Then he turns and rushes out of the room, Paula hot on his heels.
"Where are you going now?"
"Storage," he answers curtly, his long strides taking him to the room just off the kitchen.
Harvey steps inside and crouches down, pulling out an old, scuffed cardboard box from the back corner of a shelf. His hands are still for a second as he stares at it, as if summoning the courage to open it. Then he slowly lifts the lid.
Beneath a worn and tattered baseball mitt and some old memorabilia—framed programme covers, ticket stubs to dozens of ballparks, autographed photos of major leaguers he watched as a kid—he sees the thing he's been looking for. The sight hits him like a gut punch, bringing back a wave of memories he's buried so deep he almost convinced himself they don't exist.
Paula looks over his shoulder, her confusion giving way to curiosity. "What is it, Harvey?" she asks softly, taking a tentative step forward.
"Just leave," he says, his voice low but firm, the tension palpable in the air.
"What?" She stares at him, startled by the sharpness of his words.
"Paula, please. Just… leave me alone," he grumbles, not looking up from the box.
For a moment, she doesn't move, standing there as though waiting for him to explain. But when he doesn't, she shakes her head, exhaling a frustrated sigh before turning and walking away.
Harvey doesn't move until he hears the faint sound of Paula's retreating footsteps. His hands are shaking slightly as he reaches into the box, his breath hitching when his fingers brush the tiny onesie, its colors faded but the Yankee logo still visible.
He sits back against the wall, staring down at the baby clothes in his hands, his throat tightening until he can barely breathe. The soft fabric feels alien in his grasp—so small, so delicate, and yet so impossibly heavy. It has been years since he's seen it, tucked away in the storage room like a buried wound he was too afraid to expose. And yet now, with it cradled in his hands, it feels like no time has passed at all. The memories are right there, as raw and painful as the day they let Eli go.
He exhales sharply through his nose, though the air catches in his chest, refusing to escape fully. He never told Donna. Never spoke of the day where he sat in a sterile office chair, hands shaking, wondering if maybe—just maybe—they could keep the baby. The what-ifs of it all still claw at him. He'd let the doubt creep in, even let himself dream for just a second, about a future that was never meant to be.
There was a moment, one fleeting moment, where the thought didn't feel impossible. Where he had walked past that store on a rainy afternoon, the sky gray and misty, and the keen air cut like a knife. The onesie caught his eye in the window, bright and cheerful against the gloom outside. Before he could stop himself, he went in. Bought it without hesitation. It felt ridiculous, foolish even, but it also felt… good. Like he was taking a step toward something more, something real.
Harvey doesn't even realize he's crying until the tears drip down his face, cold against his skin, before soaking through the fabric of his shirt sleeve. His hands tremble as he folds the onesie against his chest, holding it as if it might shatter if he lets go.
He presses his face into the soft fabric, quiet sobs tearing from his throat as he catches his breath on gasps like an asthmatic. Each one feels like it's unearthing something deep within him—grief he's buried for more than a decade, guilt he's pretended doesn't exist. It isn't just sadness, though. It's love too. A love that never had the chance to grow, to become something tangible.
He closes his eyes, biting down on his lower lip as another wave of emotion crashes over him. He had always told himself it was the right thing to do. That giving up their baby would ensure they didn't mess up a life too innocent to endure their mistakes. But tonight he wonders if "right" ever really meant what he wanted it to. The word had always been a shield, a justification for a decision that never felt easy but had seemed necessary at the time. Yet now, thinking of Eli and realizing who he could be, the cracks in that justification are impossible to ignore.
If Eli truly belongs to them, then their choice left him with a life far worse than the one they could have offered. Worse than the one Harvey convinced himself he wasn't capable of providing. Even if he'd felt he'd be a terrible father, his kid still would've been better off—the thought almost shatters him as it tears through the fragile foundation of everything he'd told himself.
All those years ago, he believed he was protecting his son, sparing him from the instability of parents who weren't ready. But now, the possibility that he might have condemned him to something even harder, even colder, a life that's cruel and unloving, feels unbearable. Like someone is ripping his heart out while it's still beating.
He drags in a shaky breath, feeling the air warble in his chest. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, a quiet voice whispers what he's always been too afraid to admit: he was a coward. He had let that moment of hope, fleeting as it was, slip through his fingers like sand. And today, all he has left is the regrets and a tiny piece of fabric that once held his dreams.
For the first time since their child was born, Harvey doesn't push it away. He doesn't pack it back into the box or forces himself to move on. Instead, he lets himself feel it all. It hurts, but in a strange way, it feels like healing, too. Like he's finally allowing himself to be honest, not just with his grief, but with the love he wasn't brave enough to embrace.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. His heart pounds, and for a moment, he considers throwing the phone across the room instead. But before he can talk himself out of it, he presses the call button. The line rings once, twice, and then she picks up, her voice carrying that familiar warmth that somehow cuts through the chaos in his mind.
"Harvey?" She sounds confused, as if she's trying to piece together why he would be calling her at such an odd hour. It's only then that he realizes how much time has slipped by while he's been hiding in the storage room, completely lost in his thoughts. Of course she's wondering. Of course she knows something's wrong.
The back of his head thuds against the wall, his eyes burning with unshed tears. He tries to swallow them down, his teeth sinking deep into his bottom lip as he fights to stifle another sob. He can taste the faint tang of blood, but the physical pain feels distant compared to what he's going through emotionally.
He admonishes himself with everything he has. He can't tell her. Not yet. Not like this. The truth feels too raw, too uncertain, and he doesn't trust himself to say it aloud. Not until he has proof. Not until he knows for sure.
"Harvey, what's going on?" Donna asks, her voice a lifeline that grounds him even as it pulls at his frayed edges. There's no accusation in her tone—not like it felt with Paula—only gentle concern. He knows Donna noticed. She always notices. She already figured out he's crying, and the thought makes him feel both exposed and comforted all at once.
"You're scaring me," she murmurs.
For a long moment, he says nothing, the silence stretching between them. His throat tightens, and his breath hitches audibly. She doesn't push, doesn't rush him, just waits with the kind of patience he doesn't think he deserves. He closes his eyes, letting her voice steady him, soothe him in ways he didn't even know he needed. God, he… He loves her.
"I…" he starts, then stops, the words catching in his throat. He searches for an excuse, something to say that will explain away his call without betraying the mess he's in. But nothing feels convincing. Nothing feels like enough. Still, he forces himself to speak. "I just…" He clears his throat, the sound rough and strained. "I needed to hear your voice."
"Did something happen with Paula?" Donna presses again, her voice firmer now, tinged with that determination he knows all too well.
"No," he says quickly, the words tumbling out before she can ask anything else. "We're fine."
"Harvey, you can't just…" She trails off with a deep sigh, the kind that always makes him feel like he's let her down somehow.
He can picture her perfectly, the furrowed brow, the way her lips press together, her expression a mix of compassion and discomfort. He knows she's confused, uneasy, probably wondering why he's calling her at all when he's in a relationship with someone else. He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be calling her for comfort when it's not her job anymore. Probably never was, if he's honest.
"I'm sorry, Donna," he says sincerely. "It's just the pro bono… the kid… I..." Harvey exhales heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. "I guess I just needed you to tell me that—"
"You're the best man for this job?" she interjects softly, and he can hear the smile in her tone. He wishes he could see that smile right now, wishes she was here, sitting beside him, telling him it was going to be okay. Though he knows, if she were really here, faced with their past, her suffering would be even worse than his. Excruciating.
Harvey's grip tightens on the onesie in his hands. His knuckles ache, but he doesn't loosen his hold. He stares at it, his vision blurring with tears he refuses to let fall. He's never doubted Donna—not back then, not now. She would've been a great mother. She is a great mother. He sees it in the way she loves her family, her friends, even him, despite all his flaws. She's the best mother that boy could have.
"Yeah," he mumbles, forcing a chuckle past the lump in his throat. "I can always count on you to stroke my ego," he adds, his tone lighter now, even though his heart feels anything but.
"You mean on the rare occasions I'm not hurting it?" she shoots back, quick and effortless, like she always does. The warmth in her voice wraps around him, and he releases a heartfelt laugh.
But the moment fades too quickly, the weight of everything he hasn't said pressing down on him. He sniffs, trying to keep the emotion from leaking into his voice. "Thanks, Donna," he says, quieter now. "For… you know. Always knowing what to say."
"Always," she replies simply, and for a moment, there's nothing but silence between them, filled with all the things they can't say aloud. He doesn't want to let her go, but he knows he has to. If he doesn't, he'll tell her everything, and he's not ready for that.
"I'll talk to you later, okay?" he finally says.
"Okay," she agrees softly. "Goodnight, Harvey."
"Goodnight, Donna."
He ends the call and stares at his phone for several minutes, his breathing uneven. His chest feels heavy, but his mind is already turning, thinking of what comes next. He scrolls through his contacts, his finger stopping on a name. He presses the button and lifts the phone to his ear, his grip tightening on the device as it rings.
"Yeah, it's me," he says when the call connects. His voice is steadier now, more certain. "I need a DNA test. Quietly and quickly."
The silence on the other end feels longer than it probably is, and when the response finally comes, it's not what he wants to hear. His stomach sinks, frustration simmering just beneath the surface.
"No," he snaps, his free hand balling into a fist. "I can't wait for a goddamn week. This is important." His voice edges toward desperation, but he doesn't care. He needs answers—now. He stands up and paces the room, his other hand still clutching the onesie. "Look, there has to be something you can do," he insists, his tone firm but pleading. "I'll pay whatever it takes. Just make it happen."
