TWENTY-EIGHT

A DOCTOR WEARING SCRUBS and a white lab coat entered first. Then came a highly decorated military officer. I overheard someone say he had been instrumental in the rescue operation. And then the man I most resembled in the entire world stepped into the room.

My first thought was that he was thinner than I’d imagined he’d be —than his impostor had been —but considering he’d been held hostage, it made sense. My next thought was how strange it was to feel devotion toward someone I had no history with, who didn’t even know I existed.

A droplet hit my hand. It took me a second to realize it had fallen from my cheek.

As my father took a seat in the center of the table, I nodded. I knew you were a Light. Immediately hands flew up and people began shouting over each other, bombarding the panel —mostly my father —with questions.

“Please.” The doctor held up a hand. “One at a time.”

I don’t recall all that was said during the interview, but I quickly observed that my father was highly intelligent, good with words, and likable —funny even. For the life of me, I couldn’t envision him holding my mother, loving her as his wife. They were nothing alike.

That’s my dad. I said it over and over to myself, celebrating every time. I also cringed, thinking about how I’d fallen for a counterfeit.

Forty-five minutes later, after news broke that one of the European doctors had just died as a result of his injuries, the conference came to an abrupt end. As the crowd disbanded, my father stood, steadying himself against the back of his chair. He conversed with a reporter, a tall brunette he seemed to recognize.

I looked on from my post at the back of the room as two teen girls in sundresses, one slightly taller than the other, rushed up to my father and hugged him. He kissed each of them on the cheek.

My sisters.

It was a weird feeling. Like being at a family reunion, only you’re invisible and your relatives don’t know you’re there.

The room cleared quickly. I took occasional steps forward. I had yet to come up with what to say, and the closer I came to my dad, the more I fidgeted. I could see the details in his face now, and I wondered if he’d see himself in me. Or traces of my mother, maybe.

He spotted me out of the corner of his eye and glanced my way but quickly resumed his conversation —a painful reminder I was nothing but a stranger to him. But then he looked again, studying my face. Did he sense —or know —we were related?

When he formed a nonchalant smile, raising his eyebrows as if curious to meet me, I dismissed the hopeful notion. Despite a tidal wave of trepidation, I approached and, for the very first time, spoke to my father.

“Hi.”

“Hello.” He reached for a handshake. I was embarrassed that my palm was sweaty. And a little shaky. He gripped my hand and looked intently at me. All I could do was gulp. And say, “I’m Owen.”

“Stephen Grayson. Nice to meet you.”

It was my turn to talk, but I cut my eyes to the onlooking reporter. I needed her to get lost. My father had the intuition to politely wish her well and also motioned for his doctor to go on without him. With the exception of some security guards conversing in a far corner, it had quickly become just the two of us in what now felt like a gigantic room.

He smiled, revealing two small stitches near the corner of his mouth. “Where’s home for you?” he asked.

My mind went blank for a second. “I’m in Texas now.”

“Ah, I see. A Southern man. And what brings you here?”

I had a sudden, sinking realization that I shouldn’t have barged in on him like this. I should have called first or written a letter or something. But here I was. “I —I wanted to meet you.”

“Oh?” He shifted his weight, still smiling.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I’m sure he could tell I was struggling. He gave me an encouraging look. “Whatever it is, young man, it’s okay.”

“Um . . .” I couldn’t even swallow. I drummed my fingers against my jeans, searching for a way to keep from making him miserably uncomfortable. Like me.

In the end, the only way I knew to do it, was to just do it . . .

“I’m your son.” The words felt naked and out of place. “You were married to my mom, Susan Edmonds? She got pregnant but didn’t tell you.”

He furrowed his brow, then slowly covered his mouth. I tried to read his eyes, but it was like they were blank. Seconds dragged on like hours, and he said nothing. Not one word.

A major sense of regret bore down on me, and I started breathing hard. “I get it if this is too much for you right now. I mean, like, if you’re worried it could disrupt your life. Or family.”

Still not a word from him.

I stared at my shoes and rubbed my hands together, frustrated and jittery and awkward. And ashamed.

I’d thought maybe it was a sign of our likeness that we’d both worn maroon shirts today, but it was starting to seem like a stupid coincidence.

“I know you’re trying to recover.” I scanned the room, avoiding eye contact. “I shouldn’t have confronted you like this.” I spotted the nearest exit. “This was a bad idea. I’m sorry —I should go.”

As I turned my back on him and walked away, it was like my insides were incinerating, burning with a depth of humiliation I’d never experienced before.

I was nearly to the door when he called my name. I looked back, and he hurried toward me. “Please, don’t go.” I faced him, and he stared at my face. Then he reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m so glad you found me. And I cannot tell you how much it means to me to meet you.” His eyes pooled. He wrapped a firm arm around me, then hugged me —a gesture of masculine affection I’d never known.

I wasn’t one to get emotional around people, but standing there in my father’s embrace, I gave myself a pass.

And something happened.

No, I didn’t see a spectacular being of light or a new species of demonic evil. Instead I saw my life —memories scrolling through my mind like a quick news feed.

I envisioned my basketball games in middle school and high school and how, more times than not, I’d had no parent there to cheer me on. But suddenly it was like my father was there, watching from the stands.

I remembered the day in sixth grade that I’d begged my mom to let me do motocross, but she said it was way too dangerous. Now I saw my dad telling me to go for it and to practice hard because I had what it took to win.

And all those elementary school Father’s Day crafts I’d sneaked into the restroom under my shirt, then crumpled and crammed into a trash can —I could see myself giving them to him. And him wanting them.

Of course there was no going back and reliving my childhood, but somehow, even at nineteen years old, my father’s welcoming arms soothed a hurt that had haunted me every day in his absence —pain I hadn’t realized ran so deep. And I had this strange epiphany, like I could see myself in the future. I was holding my little boy the same way my father embraced me now, and I vowed to him that I’d never leave him or his mother.

My father released me and gestured toward two chairs. “Let’s have a seat and talk.”

It was like I’d won the lottery, only the prize was worth way more than cash. It was a perfect moment.

Until they walked in.