“Yes,” I said. “And your son.”

He flinched.

“He’s eight,” I continued. “He has your eyes.”

Mark covered his face. “God…”

“You knew.”

“I had my suspicions,” he admitted. “Years later, after we were married, I went back. I met Susan. We talked. We drank. Grief makes people reckless.”

“And the child?”

“It wasn’t planned,” he said quickly. “One night. A mistake born out of shared pain.”

“Then why didn’t you step up?”

He looked at me, anguish etched across his face. “Because I love you. Because our life meant everything to me. I didn’t want to shatter it over a child I didn’t know how to face.”

“That child deserves you,” I said.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I hate myself for not being there.”

Silence stretched between us.

“They’re struggling,” I said finally. “Susan and the boy. Financially. She didn’t ask for help. She didn’t even know who I was.”

Mark stared upward. “You shouldn’t have to carry this.”

“I already do,” I replied. “The real question is whether you will.”

He shook his head. “I don’t deserve him.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” I said gently. “It’s for him.”

He looked at me, eyes rimmed red. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to meet him,” I said before I could second-guess myself. “You don’t know how much time you have.”

Fear flickered across his face. “What if he hates me?”

“Then you accept it,” I said softly. “But at least you showed up.”

The following week, after Mark was discharged, I called Susan using the number from the letter.

She didn’t trust me at first.

She accused me of trying to ease my guilt, of manipulating the situation. She wasn’t entirely wrong about the guilt.

“I’m not asking you to forgive him,” I told her. “I’m asking you to let him see his son.”

There was a long pause before she finally exhaled. “One meeting.”

We met at a park.