“I wasn’t?—”
“No,” she cuts me off, her voice rising. “You let me fall for you again. You let me believe we could be a family. And the whole time, you had a petition ready to rip it all apart. Was any of it real?”
"Janie—"
"Warren, I raised him by myself."
Heat rises in my chest, my apology burning to ash before it reaches my mouth. “Because I didn’t know!” The words explode out of me. I came with the intention of making a truce, but the rage inside of me bubbles out. “I didn’t know he existed, Janie. You never told me!”
“I tried!” Her voice cracks with fury and something deeper. “I called until I realized you blocked me. You knew I tried to reach out several times before you did. And then I remembered when you told me you didn’t want to be a father. So I had to make a choice.”
“That’s not fair,” I bite out. “You gave up. One roadblock, and you decided my son didn’t need me.”
Her eyes blaze. “Don’t you dare stand there and say I decided that. I was twenty-three. Alone. Pregnant. Terrified.”
We’re standing three feet apart, shouting about the years we lost, but underneath the anger is grief. Raw, painful, soul-gripping grief. And buried under that, what I came here to say: I don’t want to lose another day.
My chest is suddenly so tight that I can't breathe, like something's going to burst. I pace across her living room, three steps one way, turn, three steps back. Just like when I'm building an argument in court.
"I was protecting myself. It had nothing to do with you and me."
"You were scheming and withholding. That is different. It didn't have to go down like this, Warren. I don't trust you now."
"You don't get to lecture me about hiding things." The words fly out before I can stop them. "Four years, Janie. Four fucking years of his life—gone."
Janie's hands shake, but her finger jabs toward me, steady and accusing. "God, it's like you can't even see how what you did, the way you did it, alienated us both. I always would have let you see Beckett whenever you wanted, whether you chose me or not. I'm not that kind of person. I thought you knew me."
"What about how you alienated me five years ago when you didn't tell me?"
"I already told you?—"
"That you tried a few measly texts and gave up? That's not good enough! You could have called my office or called from another phone!”
We're both shouting now, voices bouncing off the walls where Beckett's finger paintings hang in bright, cheerful frames. This house that once felt like refuge now feels like a battleground.
"What was your plan, Warren? Were you going to serve me those papers in bed? Maybe after I went down on you?"
"I wasn't going to serve them at all if things worked?—"
"If I behaved? If I fell in line with whatever you decided was best?"
Her eyes shine with unshed tears, and I hate it. I hate the pain I see there, hate every angry word spilling from my mouth, but I can't seem to stop. My fear keeps me swinging.
"You think I'm the villain here?" My voice drops dangerously low. "You stole years from me. Years I can never get back."
"I was alone and scared! What was your excuse for that petition? Were you alone? Were you scared when you wrote it? Or just calculating your next move like the lawyer you are?"
Her accusations slice deeper because I know how it looks. My move looks like betrayal to her. Because it was.
"You're right," I admit, my voice suddenly hollow.
She blinks, clearly not expecting that.
"I was scared. Terrified. I've spent my career watching parents use their children as weapons. I wanted... insurance."
"Against me." Her voice is barely audible. "The person you were sleeping with. The mother of your child."
I stare at the woman I've been fighting falling in love with for years, the mother of my son, and all I see now is an adversary. The air between us vibrates with things we can't take back.