Colin curled his fingers into his palms, his hands tightening into fists as he tried to stop himself from crying just like I was.

“You stepped back before I could. Then you looked down at me, patted my shoulder, apologized, smiled, and walked away.” He finished his story, his voice breaking on those last words.

I finally managed to move and go to him instead of falling to my knees in frustration and grief. I was only human and had reached the maximum tolerance level of what I could handle. I wrapped him in my arms, but he refused to hug me back.

When it was clear it was his father he wanted, I let go of him, moving off to the side so I didn’t block his view of Constantine.

“You found me right after that,” he said without looking at me. “You were a minute too late. You would’ve seen him, and then . . .”

All the and thens filled the space between the three of us.

And then you’d have had your father in your life much sooner.

And then maybe you’d never have been at that rave and hanging out with a gang.

If not for the wall behind me to lean against, all those and thens would’ve taken me down.

“It was you, wasn’t it? I’m right. And that’s why when I saw you in the parking garage you felt familiar for some reason. And why that voice told me to take your wallet.”

Constantine remained staring at him, unreactive, probably as shocked and messed up in the head as I was. Maybe more.

“You looked right at me in that hallway, but you didn’t know it was me,” Colin whispered, giving up on fighting back tears. “You didn’t even know it was your son you smiled at.”

“I remember,” Constantine said in a low voice and began striding toward us. “I remember you.” He stopped in front of our son. “And I’m so sorry I didn’t know it was you.” He reached out for him, and shockingly, Colin stepped forward.

I slapped both hands over my mouth to stop my muffled cries from interrupting their moment.

Constantine’s large hand cupped our son’s cheek, and Colin reached up, holding his wrist while closing his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Constantine repeated, his voice hoarse and raw.

“It’s just not fair,” Colin cried. “If Mom had only come a minute sooner . . .” He blinked his eyes open. “I should have met you years ago.”

“It’s not too late for you. For us.” Constantine said what our son needed to hear, but from him this time, not me. Then he brought his other hand behind Colin’s neck and leaned forward. As he bowed his forehead against our son’s, the dam of my emotions finally broke. “Whatever you’ve done, it doesn’t matter, do you understand me?”