Daddy’s Little Secret: Rejected by the MC President

~ Maria ~ “Our Father in Heaven,” I whisper, my voice barely rising above the silence of the empty church, “forgive me, for I have sinned.” The words drift through old wooden beams and rows of polished pews that must have witnessed a thousand confessions before mine, but somehow I know mine would weigh heavier than most. I lower my eyes to the little boy sleeping peacefully in my arms. He’s only a few months old, yet his tiny fingers are wrapped around mine with such complete trust that I couldn’t pull away even if I wanted to. His breathing is soft and even, his face untouched by the ugliness that brought him into this world. A stubborn lock of dark hair curls against his forehead, and every time I look at him I see the man who helped create him. People always say children are innocent. I hope that’s true because his father wasn’t. A knot tightens in my throat as I brush my thumb across my son’s cheek. He sighs without waking, nestling closer against my chest, and the simple movement hurts more than I know how to explain. One day he’ll be old enough to ask where his father is. One day he’ll wonder why we never visit him. One day he’ll notice the way people lower their voices whenever they recognise my face, and he’ll want to know what happened. And I still won’t know how to answer him. Outside, rain taps steadily against the stained-glass windows. It has been raining since before sunrise, washing soot from rooftops and gutters as though Heaven itself is trying to scrub away what happened here. But some stains refuse to disappear. Not from buildings. Not from memories. Certainly not from people. The media called it an accident at first. Some claimed it was an electrical fire. Others said it was a gas leak or a careless mistake that caused it. Then the investigations began, the arrests followed, and the stories changed. Everyone wanted someone to blame, and somehow nobody thought to look at the quiet waitress who used to carry burgers, fries, and milkshakes across a crowded dining room with a smile on her face. Nobody ever imagines the quiet ones can burn kingdoms down. I close my eyes. “I lied,” I whisper into the silence. “I coveted another woman’s husband. I hated people who had never truly hurt me. I wished terrible things on them.” A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. “I destroyed lives.” My gaze drops to my wrist. For a moment, I simply stare at the thin scars crossing my skin, pale now against the rest of me, almost easy to miss unless I know exactly where to look. They have healed, but they haven’t disappeared. I turn my wrist slightly, remembering the nights when the pain inside me felt impossible to contain and hurting myself seemed easier than facing what I had done. I quickly pull my sleeve over them. The church offers no reply. Perhaps that’s what forgiveness sounds like. Or perhaps Heaven has already decided I’m beyond hearing. The old wooden doors creak somewhere behind me. I don’t turn around. If it’s the priest, he’ll wait. If it’s someone else, they can wait too. I’m tired. Tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of pretending the worst thing I ever did was fall in love with the wrong man. It wasn’t. That was only the beginning. The worst came afterwards. After the lies. After the humiliation. After I finally understood that every promise Dominic whispered into my ear had been exactly that. Whispers. Easy to make. Even easier to forget. My son stirs, blinking open his sleepy brown eyes that look far too much like his father’s before they settle on me. Then he smiles with the effortless certainty only babies possess, believing without question that mothers can fix anything. I kiss his forehead. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I no longer know whether I’m speaking to him or to God. Because if I had walked away the first time he invited me to that motel, if I had found the courage to end our arrangement the moment I realised I was falling for a married man, if I had listened to the quiet voice inside me that kept insisting this wasn’t love, none of it would have happened. Not the lies. Not the pregnancy. Not the jokes they made about me while laughing. Not the revenge. And certainly not the fire. I draw a slow breath and hold my son a little tighter as thunder rolls beyond the church walls. People think this story began the night I destroyed the Steel Deacons. They’re wrong. It began months earlier. With an older man. And a twenty-two-year-old waitress foolish enough to believe she would be the exception. Which she never was.