My Son, My Voice

It has been five years since the divorce. During these five years, I have lived as if trapped within a shell devoid of light. The day the court's verdict was delivered, the sky hung gray and heavy. I lost custody of Malcolm and wasn't even granted visitation rights. The judge's voice was cold and clear, every word like a needle piercing my heart. Gillian Lawrence stood across from me, her husband, Carson Franco, by her side. There was no expression on their faces, as though this were nothing more than a routine formality. I opened my mouth to argue but could not utter a complete sentence. The barrier of speechlessness became an invisible wall, isolating me from everyone. Since that day, Malcolm has become the most forbidden wound in my heart. I moved to another city and found a job at a kindergarten. Every day, watching the children's smiling faces eases my heart, if only slightly. I thought that perhaps this way I could be a little closer to Malcolm, even if only in my imagination. That afternoon, I was sitting with the children, building blocks. From the doorway came a familiar sound of footsteps. I looked up, and my heart clenched sharply. It was Gillian Lawrence. She was holding the hand of a little boy, around four or five years old. The boy's eyebrows and eyes were almost exactly like mine when I was a child. My breath suddenly grew rapid, and my hands unconsciously clenched the building blocks. Gillian Lawrence saw me, a complex emotion flashing in her eyes. She pulled the boy and slowly walked over. "Jasper, long time no see." She spoke first, her voice very soft. I said nothing, only staring at the boy. The boy was also looking at me, his eyes filled with a hint of curiosity and an indescribable closeness. "His name is Malcolm," Gillian said softly, "He said he missed his father." My heart felt as though it had been violently struck by something; the pain was unbearable. Malcolm... does he still remember me? I forced myself to calm down, my throat moved, and finally I managed to say a complete sentence: "I am not his father." The moment those words left my mouth, I felt how cruel they were myself. Malcolm's eyes instantly welled with tears. He broke free from Gillian Lawrence's hand and ran towards me. "Father! You are my father!" He clung to my leg, his voice trembling with sobs. "Don't you want me? Please don't abandon me." The child's crying was like a knife, cutting through the calm I had so carefully worn. I crouched down and looked into Malcolm's tear-streaked face. His eyes were the same as mine—light brown. I wanted to hold him, to tell him I had never abandoned him. But I couldn't. The court's verdict still echoed in my ears, and Gillian Lawrence's past warnings surfaced in my mind. I could only gently push him away, my voice hoarse: "You have the wrong person." Malcolm cried even harder, clutching the corner of my clothes with desperate grip. "I'm not mistaken! Mom said you are my father! Why won't you admit it?" Gillian Lawrence walked over, trying to pull Malcolm away. "Malcolm, stop making a scene. We need to go now." "I won't go! I want my father!" Malcolm stubbornly clung to me, refusing to let go. I looked at Malcolm, feeling as if countless needles were piercing my heart. I knew my actions would hurt him. But I had no other choice. If I acknowledged him now, it would only cause him more pain later. I took a deep breath, stood up, and said to Gillian Lawrence, "Take him away, and don't come back." Having said that, I turned and walked away. Behind me came Malcolm's heart-rending cries: "Father! Father, please come back!" I did not look back, but my steps felt as heavy as if weighed down by lead. At last, I could no longer hold back the tears; they streamed down my cheeks. I knew that, once again, I had hurt the one I loved most. But I truly did not know what else I could do, other than this. The children in the kindergarten were still happily playing; their laughter starkly contrasted with Malcolm's sobs. I walked to the window and stared out at the overcast, grey sky. It has been five years. I thought I had grown accustomed to life without Malcolm. But seeing him today, I realized that longing had never truly ceased. Why did Gillian Lawrence bring Malcolm here? Was it deliberate? Or did Malcolm truly miss me that much? Countless questions swirled through my mind, yet none found an answer. I wiped away my tears and forced myself to regain my composure. I still have work to do; I cannot let the children see my vulnerability. Yet Malcolm's cries lingered long in my ears, refusing to fade. I know that from today onward, my peaceful life will once again be shattered. Yet I do not realize that this is only the beginning. More pain and struggle lie ahead, waiting for me.