Eli
I sit in the car for almost ten minutes before I make the call.
I know I have to do this. My parents need to know about Mila from me, not through some twisted version later, not through gossip, or through silence that gets uglier the longer I let it sit. I keep telling myself that, like it makes this feel less impossible.
It doesn’t.
That’s what steadies me, because it reminds me what’s real.
Mila is real.
She exists whether my parents bless her or not.
She exists whether they understand how she got here or not.
She exists whether they decide I’ve ruined my life or not.
My daughter is in that house right now, warm and safe and held by people who already love her, and I am done letting fear of my parents decide what I can and cannot say out loud.
I unlock my phone and stare at my father’s name for a second too long.
Dad.
It has to be him. If I call my mother alone, she’ll panic first, then start crying, and by the time Dad gets on the line, he’ll already be angry that I put that on her before him. I know how my family works. If I’m going to detonate something, I at least owe the blast to the right person.
My thumb hovers. Then I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
He answers on the third ring with the same tone he’s used my whole life when he wants to sound normal, and I’m already in trouble. “Elias.”
His voice is exactly the same as always. Controlled. Formal. Heavy with the assumption that when he answers, people get to the point quickly.
“Hey, Dad.”
There’s a pause long enough to make me feel twelve again. “You finally decide to answer your phone.”
Guilt pricks immediately—the reaction carved into me young and deep. I grip the steering wheel harder with my free hand. “Yeah. Sorry. Things have been—” I stop because there’s no word for this that doesn’t sound insane. “Busy.”
“Your mother’s worried.”
The way he says it means he’s worried too but would rather put the emotion on her where it feels softer and less exposing.
I know the move. I’ve seen it my whole life.
My eyes flick back to the front window. Julian is still there, shifting Mila a little higher on his shoulder.
He turns slightly, and for one brief second, I can see her little hand poking out of the blanket.
I hold on to that.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. That’s actually why I’m calling. I need to talk to you. To both of you.”
Another pause. “Your mother’s here.”
I hear a muffled sound on the other end, maybe him putting me on speaker, maybe just moving the phone. “Eli, what on earth is going on?” my Mom says, her voice tight with relief, irritation, and worry all tangled together. “Are you sick? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
The question almost makes me laugh, except there’s no humor in it because the answer is yes to one of those and maybe to all of them, depending on how you define trouble.
“I’m okay,” I say automatically, and I hate the lie the second it leaves my mouth. “I mean, I’m not hurt right now. I just… I need you to let me talk all the way through before you react.”
Then I say the words because once they’re out, at least I won’t have to keep rehearsing them in my head like a coward. “I have a daughter.”
My own pulse roars in my ears. I can’t see clearly through the windows anymore because all my focus has narrowed down to the phone in my hand, the little speaker at my ear, and the fact that I’ve just dropped a bomb in the middle of my own life.
Then my mother says, very faintly, “What?”
“I have a daughter,” I repeat. My mouth is dry, but my voice comes out steadier now that I’ve crossed the worst threshold.
“What are you talking about?” My father says before my mother can.
He sounds less shocked now than offended; as if the statement itself is an insult to order.
I shut my eyes briefly. “A few days ago, Celeste left a month old baby on our doorstep with legal papers. A DNA test confirmed she’s mine.”
That silence again, but this one is different—it’s filling up with something uglier.
“Celeste was pregnant?” My mother finds her voice first.
“Yes, she was and I didn’t know.”
“How could you not know?” my father asks immediately, and there it is, the first crack of exactly what I feared.
“Because she left Blackthorne months ago without telling me she was pregnant,” I say again, bracing myself for what I’m about to say next.
“And I didn’t know because I don’t know when…
I don’t know when it happened. We never—” I stop and force air into my lungs before continuing.
“I think Celeste drugged me because we’ve never—I never slept with her, Dad.
I’ve spoken to a lawyer. There are questions about whether I was assaulted. ”
I hear my own words as I say them, hear how impossible they sound even now, and shame hits hard enough that I nearly stop talking altogether.
My father does not let me. He gives this hard, disgusted exhale through his nose. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
I drag in a stuttered breath at the coldness in his tone. “I’m not being ridiculous.”
“Eli,” my mother says, and somehow her voice is worse because it’s soft in that strained way people get when they’ve already decided the truth but want credit for saying it kindly. “You need to be careful with accusations like that.”
“I’m not accusing her for fun,” I say, my throat starting to close. “I’m telling you I didn’t know what was happening. I was exhausted around her all the time, out of it, and I don’t remember—”
“Enough,” my father cuts in. “You are a man. You are not a victim of some girl you were dating.”
The words hit me so hard I actually flinch.
“You asked me what happened,” I say, and now I can hear the crack in my own voice, hear the desperation I hate. “I’m telling you that I didn’t know. I did not know she was pregnant, and I did not knowingly—”
“Then you should have been more careful,” my father says. “You should have acted like a man with sense instead of a boy who thinks consequences are for other people.”
“Why would she do this if the two of you were together?” My mother asks as my heart splinters, her voice quieter, but not better.
“Because I kept telling her I was waiting for marriage?” I laugh once, and the sound is awful. “I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know why she did any of it.”
“Were you sleeping with her or not?” my father demands.
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is exactly that simple.”
“No, it fucking isn’t!” I say, louder now, the curse slipping out because I’m too raw to catch it in time. There’s a sharp intake of breath from my mother at that, but I can’t even feel sorry about it.
“You don’t get to sit there and make this simple because it’s more comfortable for you.
I’m telling you I don’t remember consenting.
I’m telling you I think she drugged me or used me when I was out of it, and you’re acting like I’m making it up because it doesn’t fit whatever version of manhood you’ve got in your head. ”
“Watch your tone.” My father’s voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it.
I can feel my own breathing starting to go ragged. The car suddenly feels too small, and my skin is too tight. Through the windows, the world in the house looks unbearably warm and far away.
“Even if all of that were true—”
“I’m telling you the truth,” I interrupt before my mother can continue. “Or I’m trying to tell you the truth, but you’re not listening to me.”
My father doesn’t care. I hear that in the speed of his answer when he says, “The truth is, you got a girl pregnant, and now there’s a child involved. Everything else is you trying to dodge responsibility.”
I swallow hard enough that it hurts. “I am taking responsibility!” I exclaim. “I’m raising her after her mother decided she didn’t want to be one.”
My mother actually starts crying then, and the sound of it should hurt in the familiar way. Instead, it feels distant, almost secondary to the roaring in my ears.
Dad keeps going. “The child exists, that is the fact in front of us. And if the child exists, the proper thing to do is obvious.”
I know what he’s going to say before he says it.
“You marry her,” he says.
I laugh once, because the alternative is screaming. “What?”
“You made a child with that girl, whether you’re upset about the circumstances or not. You marry her. You give that child a proper family. You fix this before it gets uglier.”
For the first time since the call began, I feel something other than panic rise strong and certain in me. The thought of Mila anywhere near Celeste and her family, after everything, makes something savage in me bare its teeth.
“I am not marrying her,” I scoff. “She abandoned Mila and left her on my doorstep. Restraining order papers are being filed. There’s a legal record of the circumstances. Dad, I’m not marrying her.”
I switch the phone to the other hand and press the heel of my free palm against my forehead.
“A baby needs both parents, Eli,” my mother cuts in, weeping harder now.
“A baby needs safety,” I snap, and the sharpness in my voice surprises even me. “Mila needs to be safe.”
“What she needs,” my father says, every word thick with contempt now, “is not to be raised in a godless circus house full of strangers because her father is too proud to correct a mistake.”
The insult lands on the Sin Bin first, but I hear the real target underneath it. Me. My life. My choices. Everything I became away from home.
“This isn’t about pride,” I say. “I am not marrying a woman who left my daughter and may have raped me.”
“Eli, stop saying that,” my mother says, horrified.
“Why?” My voice breaks on the word. “Because it’s ugly? It happened to me, your only fucking son, and you want me to not say it?”
“You do not know that it happened,” my father says.
“I know I didn’t consent—!”