Page 4 of Game Changer
"Is it about the car?" he asks, his little face scrunching with worry. "Bobby at daycare said if you can't drive to work, you'll get fired and we'll have to live on the street."
My heart hurts. "Bobby doesn't know what he's talking about," I say firmly. "We are not going to live on the street. I promise."
I unlock our motel room door, and Tyler immediately runs to the bed where he's arranged his small collection of action figures. I set my purse down and sink onto the edge of the bed, watching him play.
Did I do the right thing? Going to David after all this time? I've survived on my own for four years, worked multiple jobs, sacrificed sleep and any semblance of a social life to give Tyler everything he needs. But now I'm running on empty, and the truth is, he deserves more than I can give him alone.
He deserves to know his father. Even if that father is currently drowning in bourbon and self-pity.
"Mom, look!" Tyler holds up a plastic football player. "He's doing a touchdown dance!"
I smile, watching him bounce the toy across the bedspread. He's obsessed with football, has been since he could walk. I never encouraged it. In fact, I even avoided ever mentioning the sport, but somehow, it's in his blood. Just like his father.
"That's great, buddy," I say. "Hey, how about we order pizza for dinner? Special treat."
"Yes!" He punches the air, nearly toppling off the bed in his excitement. "Can we get pepperoni? And those breadstick things?"
"Sure," I laugh, grateful for his easy happiness. I reach for my phone to place the order, but pause when I see I have a text message.
Unknown number: *It's David. Can we talk tomorrow? I'll be sober.*
My heart skips a beat. I didn't expect to hear from him so soon. Part of me thought he might not reach out at all, that I'd have to leave town without any resolution.
I glance at Tyler, now making explosion sounds as his action figures battle for possession of the football. He has no idea that his whole world is about to change. That the father he's never known now knows about him.
"Mom! Pizza!" Tyler reminds me, flopping across the bed.
"I'm ordering, I'm ordering," I say, setting my phone aside. David can wait until after dinner, after Tyler's bath, after bedtime stories. This evening belongs to my son.
*Our* son, I correct myself silently.
Two hours later, Tyler is freshly bathed and tucked into bed beside me, his damp hair curling against the pillow. The motel room has only one bed, so we've been sharing, his small body generating more heat than seems possible for his size.
"Story time," he declares, though his eyelids are already drooping. Pizza and bath time have done their work.
I reach for the battered copy of "Where the Wild Things Are" that we've read at least a hundred times, but Tyler shakes his head.
"Tell me about when I was a baby," he says instead.
This is a relatively new request, one that's been happening more frequently since his friend Bobby mentioned something about his own father. Tyler's never directly asked about his dad, but I've been waiting for it, preparing what I'll say when the question inevitably comes.
"Well," I begin, settling back against the headboard. "When you were a baby, you had the loudest cry I've ever heard. The nurses in the hospital said you were going to be a singer."
Tyler giggles, as he always does at this part. "But I'm not a singer."
"No, you're not," I agree, smoothing his hair. "You're my strong, smart, kind little boy."
"Did my dad think I was strong too?"
There it is. The question I've been dreading and expecting in equal measure. I take a deep breath, choosing my words one by one.
"Your dad didn't get to meet you when you were a baby," I say, sticking to the truth as much as possible. "He had to go away for work."
"Like a soldier?" Tyler asks, his eyes wide.
"No, not like a soldier. He... he played sports." This is dangerous territory. I've never told Tyler about David, never even hinted at his identity.
"What kind of sports?" Tyler asks, suddenly more awake.
