Love Inspired January 2014(293)

                “Cody’s dad.” The words stuck on his tongue like they belonged to someone else. And maybe they did. How was this even possible? His mind raced with a reasonable argument, but all he could sputter was time. “Thirteen years. Thirteen years ago?”

                “Right. Do the math.”

                He had.

                And it hadn’t added up. After he’d counted, all he’d focused on was Cody’s explanation. My dad was a jerk who left my mom when she was pregnant.

                How could—

                Him? He was the jerk?

                Heat spread across his cheeks and jaw and into his ears. “The birthday in his file doesn’t—”

                She swallowed, looked away. “It’s a typo.”

                A typo. Everything, his entire life, and future, and past, boiled down to a typo.

                What if she’d never admitted it? He’d have never known.

                Because of a typo.

                But black ink on paper or not, the truth remained. She’d lied. To both of them.

                An ache started deep within as the realization of all he’d missed paraded before his eyes. He never got to feel his son kick. Never got to hold Emma’s hand in the delivery room, never got to pose for a picture beside his newborn. Never got to help him potty train or take him to the doctor for checkups. Never got to watch Saturday cartoons or ride a bike.

                Nothing.

                Because of her.

                “How could you?” He didn’t recognize his own voice. Couldn’t control its timbre. Couldn’t stop the boiling rush of emotion rising in his throat and taking over. He slammed his fist against the door frame, and the wood cracked. “How could you!”

                She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shake. Didn’t even blink. Just stood there and took it—as if she knew she deserved it. Well, good. She did. How dare she stand there and tell him Cody’s behavior was his fault when he hadn’t even been there? Hadn’t ever been given a choice?

                His hand hurt.

                Not as much as his heart.

                The room felt as though it was caving in. Walls coming closer. He closed his eyes and shoved his fingers through his hair, his chest burning with unnamed feelings and regrets. And yet, underneath all of that...one question remained. “Why?”

                If anything, her grip around herself tightened. “I did what I had to do.”

                “Oh, right. You had to run away and keep a secret.” He laughed, a harsh sound void of amusement, one that rippled up from his churning stomach. “That makes perfect sense.”

                “Max, it’s not like that.” She reached out, but he jerked away as if her touch would poison him. Maybe it already had. Maybe that was the source of his ache the past decade-plus—the effect of Emma and her secrets. Her selfishness. “You don’t understand.”

                “You’re right. I don’t.” He grabbed his hat and shoved it back on his head. “I’ll never understand how you could keep a secret like that. How you could bring your son—our son—to my camp and still not tell me the truth.” His voice rose with every new word. “How you could stand there and blame me for his choices, how you could kiss—” His breath caught and he hardened his heart. No. No tears. She certainly hadn’t spent the past decade crying over him.