“You know what hurts?” he muttered once.
“What?”
“I see fathers throwing footballs with their boys in the park.”
I stayed silent.
“They don’t even realize how lucky they are.”
“I know,” I whispered, trying to stop myself from crying.
He turned toward me.
“No.”
His voice became colder.
“You don’t.”
The words themselves weren’t the worst part.
It was the look.
Like I had personally stolen that future from him.
For years, I carried guilt that wasn’t mine.
I knew, logically, that I hadn’t caused Liam’s condition.
The doctors had explained that countless times.
Still, when the man you love blames you often enough, part of you begins believing him.
Only Liam kept me grounded.
When he was 12, I apologized after Greg made another insensitive comment.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Liam looked genuinely confused.
“For what?”
“For… everything.”
He smiled gently.
“Mom, you didn’t do anything.”
My eyes filled with tears.
