Page 8 of Cut Off
Stevens hesitates. “Be patient. He’s been through hell these past few months. He just lost his mother, and foster care isn’t easy on a kid.”
Foster care. The words hit me like a sucker punch again, and I’m overwhelmed with guilt.
“I’m not good with kids,” I say, panic rising in my throat. “I have no idea how to—”
“Here we are.” Stevens cuts off my spiral. “The social worker, Ms. Hernandez, is inside with Eli. She’ll walk you through the next steps.”
Next steps. Like there’s some kind of playbook for this. I take a deep breath, trying to center myself like I would before a big game. But this isn’t hockey. This is real life—my son’s life—and I’m about to let him down before we even meet.
“I need a minute,” I say, and Stevens nods, stepping back to give me space.
I close my eyes, willing my heartbeat to slow. What would my dad say right now? Probably a speech about stepping up and taking responsibility. But Dad’s a better man than I am, and he had years to prepare for fatherhood. I’ve had twenty-five minutes.
When the door opens, a woman with tightly pinned gray hair in a muted pantsuit emerges. “Mr. Holt? I’m Lily Hernandez from Family Services.” When she approaches, the officers bust it down the hall. She extends her hand, which I shake as she assesses me with her eyes. “Eli’s inside. We found him at the bus station, alone. He knows you’re his biological father, and he took the bus to find you.”
I nod, my throat too tight to speak. He got on a bus, alone, and came all this way for me. “Has anyone hurt him? Is he sick or anything?”
“He’s fine.” Her voice is reassuring.
But my mind won’t stop. “Does he need new shoes or clothes?”
“His clothing is fine, and you don’t have to worry about things like that today. Your only goal right now is to walk into that room and meet your son.”
I nod, but white spots appear in my vision.
She touches my shoulder. “You okay, Mr. Holt? You’re looking pale, and it’s important you hold it together as best as possible when you meet Eli. Do you need another minute?”
Time to man up. “No, I want to see him. I want to meet my son.”
“Yes, sure. Let me go in first and prepare him.” She disappears back into the room, leaving me with my heart hammering against my ribs.
When the door opens again, and I step into the room, time stops.
He’s small, hunched in a chair too big for him, auburn hair—my hair—falling across his forehead. His eyes are red, tired, and face is set in a defiant scowl I recognize from my own childhood photos. Those eyes—Rosie’s shape, but my exact shade of blue—lock onto mine.
The recognition is instant and devastating. I don’t need a DNA test to tell me that this is my son. My flesh and blood. A child who’s been orphaned by his mother’s death and abandoned by a father who never knew he existed.
I step into the room, and everything else fades away—the social worker, the officers hovering by the door, the beige walls of the conference room. All I can see is this boy, this perfect combination of Rosie and me, this living proof that part of our first love survived even after she left.
My vision blurs as emotion clogs my throat. “Hi, Eli,” I manage.
He doesn’t respond, he just stares at me with my own blue eyes.
“You…” I swallow hard. “You look like your mom.” It’s true, but he also looks like me, and the combination knocks the wind out of me.
“I know,” he says, his words precise.
“Is it okay if I sit down?”
Eli shrugs. “I don’t care. If you want.”
He studies my every move as I take a seat across from him. Hope flickers in my chest. “I heard you were looking for me.”
“Yeah, I guess. I wanted to tell you something.”
“Something about your mom?”
Eli’s eyes never leave mine. “No. And don’t talk about her.”
