Tyler stepped closer, lowering his voice so the receptionist couldn’t hear. “You’re not my father. Gregory raised me. Gregory paid for my education. Gregory walked me down the aisle at my wedding. You’re just some guy who donated sperm and rides motorcycles.”
“Tyler, please—”
I left. Went home. Sat in my garage staring at my bike for hours. Thought about just riding off. Disappearing. If my son wanted me dead, maybe I should make it easier for him.
But my club brothers found me. Marcus and Thomas. They sat with me all night. Wouldn’t let me be alone. Wouldn’t let me do anything stupid.
“He’ll come around,” Marcus said. “Sons always come around eventually.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then you’ll survive it. Because you’re a survivor. That’s what we do.”
Three weeks later, I got the call.
The number was unfamiliar. A woman’s voice. Tyler’s wife, Sarah. The same woman who’d told me to stop calling.
“Mr. Mitchell? There’s been an accident. Tyler’s in the hospital. It’s bad. You should come.”
When I got to the hospital, they wouldn’t let me in.
“Family only,” the nurse said.
“I’m his father.”
She checked her computer. “His emergency contact lists his father as deceased.”
“That’s me. I’m Robert Mitchell. Tyler Mitchell is my son.”
She looked confused. Called security. They were about to escort me out when Sarah appeared. She looked destroyed. Red eyes. Shaking hands. A woman who’d clearly been crying for days.
“Let him in,” she said quietly. “He’s Tyler’s biological father.”
And there was my boy. My baby. My son.Continue reading…
