Page 47 of Christmas With My Ex

“I should’ve told you sooner,” I whisper, my heart aching. “I know I should have. But it was too late, and I thought you were better off not knowing by the time I had him.”

He’s quiet for a long time, and I can feel the fear building in my chest, the fear that this is it, that this confession will be the thing that breaks us. All the progress we’ve made, all the love we’ve rebuilt in this powder keg these last few days won't sustain this news.

Finally, he looks at me, his eyes filled with pain but also something else... something softer. “I honestly don't know what to say, Rives.”

“I don't blame you,” I admit, my voice breaking. “I never thought we would be together like this again. I'm so sorry.”

Nicholas runs a hand through his hair, his jaw tight, and I can see the struggle in his expression. He has so many questions, I can tell, but for now, he’s quiet, letting the weight of the confession settle in.

I wipe at my eyes again, my heart pounding in my chest. “I would give anything to go back in time.”

EIGHTEEN

Nicholas

See the blazing yule before us/Fa la la la la, la la la la (fa la la la la, la la la la)

10:42 am

The cold airbites at my skin as I walk, my breath coming out in short, visible puffs. Each step crunches under the weight of my boots, but I barely notice. My mind is spinning, racing with everything she just told me.

I left her in my room, needing space, needing to breathe. But now, the anger is simmering just beneath the surface, every thought a sharp jab.

She gave up our child. Without telling me. "Fuck!!" I yell.

I kick at the snow beneath me, frustration surging through my veins. I can’t wrap my head around it. A son—myson. Out there,somewhere, living a life without me. The thought is a punch to the gut.

I do the math in my head, replaying the timeline she gave me.

We broke up mid January, 2019. It was ugly, and I didn’t handle it well.

She said she found out she was pregnant in February. That means she likely got pregnant around January some time, probably when we had make-up sex that was never going to do anything to move the needle. The writing was on the wall.

February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October. He was probably born in October of twenty-nineteen, which means he’s just turned four—four years old, the same age as Sammy. He’s out there, somewhere, and I don’t even know his name. My son.

Sammy and my son could be growing up together, the same age. Helena and I could have shared a year together with our infant sons.

The pain twists in my chest, but there’s something else there too—something I don’t want to admit. Maybe she made the right choice.

I shake my head, trying to push the thought away. It doesn’t make the hurt any less real, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.

Back then, I wasn’t in a place to take on another child. I had an eighteen-month-old son. I was just figuring out custody with Bev, and I was barely holding it together.

How could I have handled a second child? What kind of life would I have given him? One where I was constantly tornbetween responsibilities, trying to be a father to two kids from different mothers while juggling an ER schedule that barely gave me room to breathe.

I stop walking, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. As much as I hate it, as much as it kills me to admit, she did the best thing she could for him. Giving him to a family that could provide what neither she nor I could at the time.

But it still hurts like hell.

I glance up at the snow-covered landscape around me, the soft glow of Christmas lights from the resort in the distance. My heart aches, knowing there’s a child out there with my blood running through his veins. And I’ll never know him. Never be a part of his life.

I know she didn’t do it out of spite or cruelty. She was grieving her mom, dealing with the loss in a way I can’t even begin to understand, and she had to carry this child for nine months all by herself.

I was a dick. I didn’t answer her calls. I walked away. I made it easy for her to believe I wouldn’t have wanted to be there. In a way, I failed her long before she made the decision to give our baby up.

I let out a breath, my chest tight. I promised her I wouldn’t walk away again. I meant it. This time, I’ll be different.

Somehow, we will get through this. Or at least put in the work trying.

---