I sat him down on the edge of the fountain.
I’d practiced it in the car for six hours. I’d practiced it for six weeks. I still wasn’t ready.
“Wyatt,” I said. “I have to tell you something about your dad.”
He went very still.
“When you were nine, I told you he was a man I dated who wasn’t ready to be a father. That he moved away.” I took a breath. “That wasn’t true. I lied to you.”
“Okay,” he said slowly.
“I never dated your father. I never met him. I wanted a baby very much, and I didn’t have anyone to have one with. So I went to a clinic. A sperm bank. I picked a donor from a list. A stranger. Number 4471.” I took the folded printout out of my purse and handed it to him. “That’s him. That’s all I knew about him. For fourteen years.”
