#i also

“You have a child?” Darry’s voice outwardly sounds neutral — though, something was off about it. You knew.

You didn’t mean to run into him — you were just running errands with your kid. Some mother-son bonding time that was now, unfortunately tainted.

“I did.” you responded quietly, eyes pointed downwards. As if you were a guilty dog. “This is my son.”

Darry and you were once a power-couple, you were supposed to get married — have children together, find your own place that could fit your children and his little brothers…but you two broke up, two years ago now. You don't like talking about the reason why.

Now there you were in front of him, holding hands with a nervous young toddler-aged boy next to you — sucking his thumb and eyeing Darry with weary eyes.

“Where’s his father?” Darry knew that the question was useless. The kid looked around two, it was possible that he was conceived after your guys’ breakup; but he doubted it.

You still didn’t meet his eyes. You squeezed your son’s hand tighter and sighed. “Not present, not an issue.”

Darry shook his head — speechless at first. Not present. No good-hearted man would willingly abandon his son, unless he was a bottom-of-the-barrel douche. But Darrel knew that you would never go for a man like that.

He took a step forward, looking down at the boy — he was anxious, like you; he had the same eyes, same facial expression, but not much of the same facial features.

He lowered his tone, “Be honest with me, Baby…” The nickname rolled off his tongue easily, comfortingly, “Am I…?”

His voice trailed off, not wanting to voice his question in front of the child — hearing a random man ask your mother, “Am I his father?” would definitely be a traumatic core memory.

In the moment, it felt like you couldn’t speak even if you wanted to — but you didn’t. You hoped to blink and teleport back into your living room, helping your son recognize and recite colors. But no, you were here — in front of the man who fathered your child, and you never told him.

“I need to go, Darry.” You said suddenly, tightening the grasp on your son’s hand — a little too hard, you’d remember to apologize to him about that later.

You walked off, ignoring Darry’s pleas for you to come back — to answer his question.

“I won’t be mad at you.” You heard him say, almost making you turn around — that’s what you feared in the first place, but you were already halfway tone, and it would’ve killed your ego if you quit now.

___

You put your son to bed at around nine, a little late — but you made sure to play with him a little extra so he’d forget that whole spiel from earlier. Though, (un)fortunately, he was a smart boy. He remembered. But he wouldn’t ask you about it; for a two year old, he knew how to read the room pretty well.

Standing in front of your bathroom mirror, you brushed your teeth and applied numerous face creams to keep yourself ‘youthful’ — you were already pretty young, barely twenty. Though God forbid you were a little insecure.

That’s when you heard a knock at the front door — you ignored it at first, it was late, and you weren’t expecting anyone. But it became more persistent, and any more of it would’ve woken up your son.

You wrapped your robe and mentally prepared yourself to answer to whomever it was — but nothing could’ve prepared you to see Darry.

“Hey.” His hands were casually shoved into his pockets — he was usually so formal with front door etiquette, but he must’ve been so nervous that he was fidgeting with the denim of his blue jeans.

“Hey…” You crossed your arms over your robe — the air suddenly became more chilly. “didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Where’s the boy?” He asked.

“…Asleep.”

“Can I come in?”

“I guess.” You stepped back, opening the door wider.

The two of you sat on the couch, far from each other. As far as you could be.

It was awkward at first, with how quiet it was — that was until he spoke, quiet, but not silent.

“I’m sorry for how…direct I was earlier.” He apologized easily. Darry was always great at taking accountability.

Your lips pursed into a firm line — not knowing what to say. It was once so easy to talk to him, now, not so much.

“I’m…also sorry for…walking away. Running away.” The apology sounded as if it was forcefully ripped from your vocal cords — it was sincere, in your heart it was. Just, not so much with your brain.

Darry didn’t look at you, he only stared at the carpet — he was manspreading, but hunched over with his elbows on his thighs; twiddling his thumbs.

“It’s fine — If you answer my question.” He rasped, jaw clenched. He wasn’t upset with you, just irritated.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” When you spoke, you immediately regretted it. You could’ve just said the truth — but instead, you chose to be difficult.

To Darry — it seemed like you wanted to stay a single mother. You were struggling, he knew it with the bags underneath your eyes — so why did you choose to be like this?

“You know what I want you to say, it’s simple.” His hands clasped together, clutching painfully tight. “Am I the boy’s father, yes — or no?”

“I…I don’t,” you stammered, but were quickly interrupted by Darrel’s raised voice:

“No — no ‘I’s’, just tell me if I’m his father!” He didn’t yell, only spoke with a little more force. But that wasn’t like him at all.

“You are — you are.” You immediately gave-in, cracking under the pressure.

Darry looked at you, seeing how you tried to stop your face from twisting into an expression of vulnerability — trying to hide all soft parts of you.

He sighed, standing up from his seat — walking over to you and kneeling. “Hey, look at me.”

You glanced upwards, meeting Darry’s eyes for the first time. A tear fell down from your right eye, and others swelled up in your left — it broke Darry, seeing you like this. Even after two years of no-contact, no feelings.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” his large hands cupped your cheeks, “I just…don't want a child — especially one so precious as yours, to grow up without a father.” He confessed.

You nodded in his hands, sniffling. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” You broke — tears evenly flowing from both eyes, broken breaths leaving your lips.

“Hey — hey, don’t cry. It’s okay, it’s okay.” He assured, moving to sit on the couch next to you — pulling your head forward so you could cry into his chest.

“Im not mad at you for keeping it a secret, I’m really not. I’m just happy that I know now. You know, I’ve always wanted a child of my own.” His large hand rubbed your back — and you eventually calmed down in his embrace, quietly sniffling and wiping tears as you thought of the past — being a first time, single mother to a little boy who had Darry’s face, then the present — being held in Darry’s arms. The future — fantasizing about you two’s relationship being repaired, with Darry taking care of your son, and half of your stress being lifted off your back.