Jessica Matthews - The Child Who Rescued Christmas

Unfortunately, the decision wasn’t completely his to make.

It was ironic to think that Sara would have jumped for joy at taking in Brody had someone else fathered him. Unfortunately, Brody’s presence would not only be a visual and constant reminder of his error in judgment but also that she’d lost her own child. The only question was, could she look past those reminders or not?

“Yes,” he answered simply, threading his fingers together in a white-knuckled grip. “Keep in mind he has nowhere else to go.”

She met his gaze. “That’s not fair, Cole. Don’t play on my sympathies to get what you obviously want.”

“I’m only stating a fact.”

Slowly, she rose, leaving the photo on the table. “I won’t apologize for needing time.”

“Okay,” he conceded, “but—”

She held up her hands. “I can’t rush into a decision without thinking this through. The thing is, whatever we—I—decide to do about your son, our lives will never be the same.”

As if he needed to be reminded … He was damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t. Sara must have come to the same realization, too.

Suddenly, holding a person’s life in his hands, medically speaking, seemed like less of a minefield than the situation looming ahead of him. Although he’d mentioned a twenty-four-hour deadline, somehow he sensed that announcing the Maitlands were expecting a decision by tomorrow morning wouldn’t be well received.

He watched helplessly as she walked out of the room.

As he sat alone, he thought about how he’d enjoyed almost three years of blissful ignorance. Ruth should have told him and the fact she hadn’t angered him. He had deserved to know, damn it!

Like Sara deserved to know? his little voice asked. You wanted to protect your relationship with Sara, so maybe Ruth was doing the same for you …

He sighed as he recognized the truth. Ruth’s silence had provided a simpler solution to their dilemma. She’d known how crazily in love he’d been with Sara and breaking the news would have driven a wedge into his new marriage. Not only that, Ruth would have had to share Brody with him because as unprepared as he felt about fatherhood, he would have insisted on knowing his own son, even if he’d been a long-distance parent.

The idea that he might never have known about Brody if Ruth hadn’t died didn’t set well and was too close to his own situation for comfort. His only aunt and uncle hadn’t bothered to make contact with him until he was eight, when circumstances had forced them to do so. While Brody’s fate was still undecided, he certainly wouldn’t ignore the boy in the meantime.

Idly, he wondered if this one subtle difference proved that his fears of repeating his relatives’ dysfunctional behavior were unfounded. Of course, wanting to meet Brody was hardly enough evidence to make a case, but it was a difference that he could think about and consider. In the meantime, he had more pressing concerns.

The clock on the microwave showed six-thirty. Had only thirty minutes passed since he’d broken the news to Sara? Thirty minutes since he’d shattered his wife’s faith in him?

He glanced at the sealed envelope on the table before focusing on the photo of his son. His son. A living, breathing product of his own DNA, a continuation of the Wittman family tree.

The same awed thoughts had bombarded him after Sara had announced her pregnancy but this time the feelings were a little different. Now he had a name and face whereas before the only tangible evidence of his child had been a number on her lab report. Before he’d had time to dream big dreams, to imagine a little boy or girl with Sara’s beautiful eyes and his crooked smile, or to work through his reservations about being a parent, Sara had miscarried.

Brody, however, was here. In the flesh. Already walking and talking with a personality of his own.

Suddenly, the past two-plus years of ignorant bliss were far too long. He wanted to meet his son tonight, regardless of the hour or how cranky he might be. Waiting until tomorrow seemed like an eternity.

As he heard a loud thump coming from the direction of their bedroom, however, his eagerness faded. Meeting a child he might never be able to claim as his own could easily be a prelude to heartache.

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