Since it never came up, Connor never mentioned it either. Even now, after all this time. Except for that one time when Tim unconsciously babbled it. Connor had never actually heard those two words from Tim's lips.
Rationality kicked back in for Connor. His hand, once poised to strike, now hung limply by his side. A wave of guilt washed over him. Tim was just a three-year-old kid. Mischief was second nature to him. A little guidance would do the trick—there was no need to hit him. Connor scolded himself silently.
He pulled Tim into a hug. "I'm sorry, buddy. Daddy shouldn't have hit you. I was just so scared—scared of losing you."
Connor was truly frightened. The fear of losing someone was worse than drowning, more terrifying. He had lost too much already. He couldn't bear to lose a single thing more. But even after being comforted, Tim's tears didn't stop. He kept pointing toward the door, repeating the word "mommy."
Connor sensed something was off. The resort manager came over and said, "A lady just brought the little guy back. He kept clinging to her, calling her 'mommy.'"
Connor's brow furrowed. For a moment, he felt like he was stepping off a cliff. His heart felt weightless. But logic quickly kicked in again, and he brushed off the thought. Tim had no concept of a mommy; how could he just call someone that out of nowhere?
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