THIRTY-TWO
CALEB
I standoutside Bruiser’s bedroom door at eight in the morning, with Harper’s hand trembling in mine.
It’s been a week since we told him Z died, and it’s been a week of watching my nine-year-old son grieve for a man who called himself “Dad” while I lived just four hours away without even knowing I had a son.
“Ready?” Harper whispers.
My heart pounds against my ribs in a steady rhythm, and I count each beat to keep myself grounded.
“No,” I say honestly. “But let’s do it anyway.”
She squeezes my hand before knocking softly on the door.
“Bruiser? Baby, we need to talk to you.”
A groan comes from inside. “What time is it?”
“Early,” Harper says. “But it’s important.”
I hear the bed creak, followed by footsteps, and then the door opens.
Bruiser stands there in his pajamas with his hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy with sleep.
“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately, because at nine years old he already expects something bad when we wake him up like this.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say quickly. “We just need to talk. Can we go downstairs?”
He studies both of us with suspicion before giving a small nod.
We settle in the living room, and Bruiser chooses the armchair, putting space between us, while Harper and I sit side by side on the couch facing him.
My son.
The words still don’t feel real to me.
Bruiser pulls his knees up to his chest and makes himself smaller, and I can see the defensive posture immediately. His eyes are rimmed red, and I know he’s been crying when he thinks we can’t hear him. Every night this week, I’ve stood outside his door listening to him cry into his pillow.
The past week presses in on me whether I want it to or not.
Seven days ago, we were in this same living room when Harper sat him down.“We have something we need to tell you.”
Bruiser’s whole body had gone immediately alert.
Harper’s voice broke as she told him, “Baby, Z isn’t coming back. He died.”
I watched the confusion on Bruiser’s face shift in understanding, and then into devastation.
“Dad’s dead?”
That word hasn’t stopped echoing in my head since.
Dad. For Z.
He saved her life, so I have gratitude for the man. But for the hell he put her through, I can’t deny that I still hate him.
The days that followed blurred together, filled with questions that a nine-year-old can’t fully understand, nightmares that woke him in the middle of the night, andHarper holding him while he cried. I stood in the doorway more times than I can count, feeling completely helpless as I watched my son mourn.