Page 43 of Secret Baby for the Bad Boy

Lark

Stepping into my childhood home is like walking back in time to when I was younger.

Even when I offered to buy my mother a bigger, newer, more upscale place, she’d refused. She told me she wanted to live here with the memories of raising me and the time we’d had with my father while he was still here.

That thought squeezes my heart as my finger trails along the craftsman cabinets my father had built into the front room to hold shoes and jackets.

“Your dad was so proud of that,” Mom says from the kitchen, her voice warm and filled with a bittersweet nostalgia.

“As he should have been.” It’s impressive, really. The man’s ability to build literally anything had been something my mom remembers fondly and often when reminiscing about the man.

I wander into the living room, drawn to the mantle. Or more accurately, the pictures above it. I can close my eyes and remember stockings hung here every year, cozy fires, times spent drinking hot cocoa on the couch with my mom.

There he is, Dad, frozen mid-laugh in a frame of tarnished silver. Beside him, a little me grins toothlessly, likely just happy to hear his laugh. I wonder, as I have so many times before, what made him laugh like that? Was it something I did? Some silly baby antic that made him burst out laughing? I swear if I clear my mind enough I can hear his laughter, though there’s no way that’s possible.

“I always thought I’d follow in his footsteps,” I say, thinking about his skill woodworking. But I’d gone a totally different direction.

“Still can.” Mom's optimism never wanes; it’s one of the things I love about her.

“Maybe in another life.”

I turn away, eyes catching on the familiar scuffs along the hallway—battle scars from indoor soccer matches and reckless sprints from imaginary monsters. Each mark, each dent in the hardwood, a story. A memory. Time spent with a mother who raised me to see the value in myself and how a good parent can make or break a person. I only wonder what my life would have been like with both her and my dad.

“This pace hasn't changed a bit,” I say, my whisper meant more for me than mom.

“It wouldn't feel right if it did.” Mom leans against the doorframe, apron-clad, flour dusting her hands. “And I don’t have the heart to change a single thing.” Her gaze wanders the memories, a faraway look in her eyes telling me she’s in another place, another time.

“You’re right.” Of course, she is.

I continue wandering, wondering if it’s healthy that the place feels like a museum. Dad's recliner sits untouched, the leather creased from years of use. The TV, ancient by today's standards, still has a VCR attached—mom never cared to upgrade or change things, preferring to be here alone with her memories after I left home.

“You should've seen him trying to fix that thing,” Mom says, pointing to the VCR. “He swore it just needed 'a little love'.” Mom’s soft laugh fills my heart even as sorrow creeps in.

“Love couldn't save it from obsolescence.” I think a moment about how far we’ve come just in my lifetime, but my mom isn’t quiet.

“Nothing does.” Her smile fades, just for a second.

We stand there, lost in the past, of what used to be. The house seems too quiet, as if holding its breath while we remember a man who was taken from us far too soon.

“Sometimes it feels like he's still here.” Mom sounds heartbroken even after all these years, and I can’t imagine how hard things have been for her.

“Maybe he is.” I’m not one to believe in things like that, but I know mom finds comfort in thinking everything happens for a reason, and that just because we can’t see something or touch it or quantify it doesn’t mean it’s not real.

Mom nods and wipes her hands on her apron, ready to return to the kitchen. “I hope so.”

I pace the length of the living room, my gaze lingering on a photo of me as a toddler perched on my father's shoulders. My heart tightens; I am a father now, too.

The weight of that truth settles heavily on my chest. Love for my son swells within me, fierce and protective. Yet there's this gnawing fear, an agonizing whisper warning that I could lose him—and Lara. I lost my dad. I’m no stranger to the unfairness of life.

I know firsthand the pain of growing up with an absent father. I can't be that. Won't be that. But fear is a constant companion that likes to whisper doubts and regrets. What if I fail him? What if I can’t keep him safe? What if he grows up and we grow apart?

“Still pacing like a caged lion?”

I glance up at mom, who’s smiling at me from the doorway. She’s told me at least a hundred times that I can’t help her make dinner, but I’m about to make that a hundred and one.

“Can I help?” I ask.

She shakes her head. I know she sees right through me, always has.

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