Cyrus
Chapter sixteen
Rude awakening
The air’s humid as I cut through, eating the space between the driveway and Mom’s house. The enormous, bright red doors and lush greenery are usually a welcoming, wholesome reprieve from the outside world. Right now? The crimson feels accusatory.
Billy has grown up to nine years old without a father. I’ve lived nine years without knowing I had a daughter.
I swallow the rage building for a child I’ve never met, for a life I never got to touch. There’s no language for how deeply that truth carves into me—how it rearranges everything I thought I knew about myself.
I have a daughter.
And she never told me.
An echo of my footsteps is the only warning before I push through the doors.
I quicken my stride, cutting through the foyer into the living room.
Liam is bouncing on the couch, fidgeting with a gaming controller, while Mom kneels in front of the TV, pressing buttons on the remote with clear frustration.
“Liam, honey. I’m not tech savvy; I can’t figure this thing out,” she says, the exasperation evident in her tone.
My body is a live-wire of disbelief, the pain morphing into something bitter toward the woman who raised me, a woman I have devoted all my love to. The one person who is supposed to tend to the pain life gives, not be the source of it.
I draw in a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs in a last-second attempt to steady myself before I combust. Family photos line the mantel—neatly arranged, almost curated. At first glance, nothing unusual. Then I see them. Fallon. Billy.
Again and again, threaded through the same frames as Liam and me, as if they’ve always belonged there.
My gaze snaps away too late. The punch in my gut twists into something sharper—hot, immediate, unrecognizable in its intensity. Liam and Billy… How the hell did I not see it? Because you refused to look at them.
My tone is brutally cold when I speak, even and clipped. “Liam, go play outside. I’ll come get you when we’re done.”
Both of them turn, startled by my sudden arrival. Liam’s small face pinches in confusion. More gently, I add, “Go on, buddy. Dad and Grammy need to talk.”
Mom straightens immediately. She knows I’m upset—she always does. That mother’s intuition doesn’t miss much. Liam bounces once on the couch before hopping down and running toward me. I catch him in a quick, tight hug. We’ll talk later about respecting furniture. Not now.
“Outside, buddy,” I murmur against his hair. He nods and disappears through the door. The moment it shuts, the air changes. “How did the fishing go?” Mom asks, too steady. Too careful. I let out a sharp, humorless breath. “I think you already know.”
Her expression stays guarded. Controlled.
That only fuels it. “You lied to me, Mom,” I say, voice rising despite myself.
“For years. You kept something this important from me.” My throat constricts.
“How am I supposed to trust you again? With anything? With my kids?” A beat.
My jaw clenches. “Because apparently I have more than one child I didn’t know about—one you helped raise behind my back for nearly a decade. ”
My voice falters on the last word. Nine years. It lands like a wound reopening. Mom lifts her hands slightly, not defensive—exhausted. “I questioned for years if you knew,” she says quietly. “Lord knows I tried telling you.”
Silence crashes between us. And something in me snaps. Not loudly. Not cleanly. Just… breaks. My hands drag through my hair as I pace once, twice, trying to hold myself together and failing. Tears burn hot, slipping down my face before I can stop them.
Ten years.
She knew.
They all knew.
“I’ve lost almost ten years,” I choke out. “And you just let me live without her.” Mom’s face crumples—grief, not denial. That makes it worse. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I whisper, voice breaking completely. “Mom… how could you and Fallon do this to me?”
Deep blue eyes sharpen at my insinuation—and at the use of the Lord’s name in the house that raised me. Mom’s rules were never flexible. Not when I was a kid, and clearly not now. She would’ve corrected me for less.
With my line of work, I’ve met people carrying religious trauma—folks who had faith twisted into something cruel, weaponized. But not my mother. Her belief has always been action over performance: feed the hungry, don’t judge your neighbor…and apparently, still not tell me I have a whole-ass child.
The remote flies across the room and lands hard on the couch as she rises, storming toward me, her aging face tight with fury.
“Now you listen to me, Cyrus Dewayne McCoy,” she snaps. “You will not take the Lord’s name in vain in this house. I don’t care how old you are—I will box your ears if I have to.”
She steps closer, voice shaking but steady with conviction.
“I’m praying for patience right now, but my tolerance is limited. You will watch your tone. I take accountability where it’s due, and there’s plenty I could answer for. But I am not responsible for your choices.” Her words sear through me. Brutal in her honesty.
“You chose to lie with her. You chose to leave. You chose to change your number. You chose not to come back.” Each sentence lands like a verdict.
“This is called consequences, Cyrus. And I am not in the habit of fixing yours, even when they hurt you and others.” She exhales sharply, the anger finally giving just enough for exhaustion to slip through.
“For years, I tried to tell you,” she adds, quieter now. “So many times you told me to mind my business. So I did.”
Silence crashes in behind her words. My mouth opens—but nothing comes out.
Her temper is legendary in this town. Nobody mistakes it for softness.
But this…this isn’t just anger. It’s truth, delivered without apology.
And it lands like a weight I can’t lift.
A child I didn’t know I had. A child I refused to know about.
Billy.
My daughter. Somewhere out there. Growing up without me. My hands curl into fists at my sides, every instinct in me screaming to argue, to defend myself, to push back, but I don’t. Because mom is right, Jonah is right, I am the problem.
I shift slightly, leaning in, fingers twitching like I could somehow undo what’s already been said.
She doesn’t give me an inch.
Her fury hits first—hot, cutting—then settles into something steadier, heavier, pinning me in place. It doesn’t just carry anger. It carries history. Expectation. Love, too, in a way that hurts worse than the rest of it.
I swallow hard, forcing myself not to speak.
Her words keep coming, each one landing with precision—pointing directly at every choice I made, every place I failed, every time I walked away when I shouldn’t have.
And still, beneath it all, something else starts to surface. Not defense. Not denial.
Understanding. The silence that follows stretches long enough for me to breathe again. Long enough for the weight of it to settle instead of just crash.
Because buried in everything she’s said is something I can’t ignore anymore.
Billy.
A daughter I never looked for because I didn’t know I was supposed to.
I settle back slightly, muscles tight, heartbeat still unsteady. I don’t interrupt. Don’t argue. Don’t fight for the sake of fighting. For once, I just listen. Because this isn’t about me defending who I was. It’s a reckoning over what I missed. And the life I can’t afford to miss anymore.
And through it all, something shifts inside me—determination, fear, love, and awe tangled into a single line of fire that runs straight to her.
Billy.
My daughter.
I will make this right.
And if Mom’s wrath is what it takes to teach me how, I’ll take every word of it.
“I’m not without fault,” she says sharply, refusing to let up. “When you cut Fallon and Jonah off, I made assumptions I regret—nasty ones that I live with every day.”
Her voice wavers, but doesn’t soften. “I spent time with that girl. Enough to know she isn’t what people made her out to be. She’s been hurt, Cyrus. Repeatedly. And still she gives more of herself than she ever gets back.”
Her eyes harden again. “Fallon is not the villain in this story.” A pause. “And neither is Jonah.” Then she exhales, sharp. “So before you go spiraling again—how was I supposed to know you didn’t know?”
Her hands lift slightly, frustrated now. “I can name half a dozen men in this town who walk around called ‘Dad of the Year’ while their kids grow up without them. Don’t you dare sit here and act like you’re the exception. You made choices. Now you deal with them.”
I stare at her.
My mother—small, aging, tired—but unyielding. Her blue eyes are misted now, not just with anger, but with something heavier. Disappointment. That lands deeper than anything she’s said. Because she’s right.
All the anger I carried…misdirected. Misplaced. Wasted. And in the end—I was never the victim in this story.
“Rosemary cornered me,” I say finally, voice low. Mom goes still. “It was at the gas station,” I continue. “She told me Fallon and Jonah had been together. That she was pregnant. That they were planning an abortion and weren’t going to tell me.”
My jaw tightens.
“I believed her.” I can’t look at my mother. Not yet. “I was young,” I add, quieter. “Angry. And Fallon…Mom, she was always—” My voice catches, and I shake my head once. “She’s always had my heart. Always. I couldn’t imagine her doing that. But I believed it anyway.”
A bitter laugh slips out without humor. “And I just left.” My throat tightens. “I spent years thinking I was the one who got betrayed,” I admit. “When really…” I finally look up. “I was wrong.”
She tilts her head, studying me in silence.
Finally, understanding settles across her face.
“Sweetheart,” she says gently, “I raised you to trust the adults in your life—never imagining you’d be put so close to someone like Rosemary.
That’s my failing as a mother.” Her voice softens.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t blame you.
Your younger years are for mistakes, and this one…
you didn’t make alone.” She holds my gaze.
“Have grace with yourself. There’s still time to make it right. Don’t you think you and Fallon have suffered enough because of that woman?” The words are meant to comfort me. But all they do is sharpen the truth I already know.
“I can’t fix this mistake.” Mom crosses the room and grips my shoulder—firmly. “Cyrus, your feelings are valid,” she says. “But so are Fallon’s. You were lied to and manipulated by someone you should’ve been able to trust.”
A beat.
“But don’t you dare punish yourself forever for someone else’s cruelty.
We don’t live our lives for other people’s comfort—but we do correct our mistakes.
” She exhales, already shifting tones. “Now, send my boy back in here so I can get this game started. I’m calling Jonah, and we’re not borrowing trouble all night. ”
Her eyes sharpen again. “You’ve wasted enough time. Go to Fallon. Get on your knees if you have to. Humble yourself. And ask for her forgiveness.”