Page 19 of Sins and Salvation

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I pullon a t-shirt and step into the hallway. The door to Conor's room is ajar. I pause, peering inside at the small figure in the bed. My son. The reality of it punches me in the gut every time I think about it. It’s like waking up from a concussion, the truth is new each time I see him.

I go into the room quietly, careful not to wake him. When he sleeps, he looks even more like me. The same jawline, the same nose. Even his hair falls across his forehead the same way mine did at his age.

What have I missed? First steps. First words. First day of school. Birthdays. Christmas mornings. All the moments that make a child's life, gone forever because I wasn't there.

I am overwhelmed with regret so powerful it steals my breath.

"He hates sleeping in strange places."

I turn to find Maeve in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. The moonlight from the window casts her in silver and shadow.

"Does he have bad dreams?" I ask.

She nods. "About monsters. Ironic, considering who his father is."

The barb hits its mark. "I'm not a monster, Maeve."

"No? Your bruised bloody knuckles say otherwise."

I look down at my hands, still raw from the "chat" I had with the Russian. "I do what needs to be done."

"That's what scares me." She adjusts the blanket over Conor. "You think violence is the only way to fix things."

"It is in my world."

"That's not the world I want for my son. I do not want him learning that’s the way to get what you want."

"Our son," I correct, unable to stop myself.

She turns those ocean-blue eyes on me, hard as ice now. "Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove you deserve to be his father. Prove you're not just another Donovan thug who solves problems with his fists."

I clench my jaw, fighting back the anger her words ignite. "I left Dublin to escape that life."

"And now you're back, looking like you stepped out of a horror movie, talking about 'chats' with Russians. You might have left, but look at you. You left and spent seven years fighting in a cage."

We stand on opposite sides of Conor's bed, the sleeping child between us the line that both divides us and tethers us together.

"Come downstairs," I say. "I don't want to wake him."

She hesitates, then nods, following me to the kitchen. I grab two beers from the fridge, offering her one. Our fingers brush in the exchange, sending a jolt through my body.

"Tell me about him," I say, leaning against the counter.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

A smile touches her lips, so brief I almost miss it. "He's smart. Too smart sometimes. Asks questions I can't answer."

"Like about his father?"

She nods, taking a sip of beer. "He started asking when he was four. Why he didn't have a dad when all his friends did."

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