“You make them sound so sweet,” she says. “Almost makes up for the fact that they disowned me and left me out on the streets. Literally.”
“What?” The word disowned was never a part of our household vocabulary.
“I’m sure there’s a lot they didn’t tell you,” she says, pointing her cigarette at me. “You were their second chance.”
That much I’ve always known.
“As soon as you came along, I was chopped liver,” she says with a bittersweet smile. “But damn, you were cute. Those big brown eyes, full head of hair. Really wanted to keep you.”
I wrinkle my nose. “You wanted to keep me?”
“I was fifteen. No way I could’ve done it on my own. Dad wanted me to give you up. Closed adoption style. But Mom wouldn’t have any of that. She wanted to raise you—”
“—wait.” My head pounds as I process this information.
“Oh my god. You didn’t know?” She stubs out her half-smoked Marlboro before angling toward me. “They didn’t tell you?”
“Let me get this straight … you’re my biological mother?” I ask. “And the people who raised me … were my grandparents?”
Her dark eyes dart from left to right, and then she nods. “Uh, yeah.”
Hunched over, elbows on my knees, I steeple my fingers over my nose and breathe in a lungful of nicotine air.
“Jesus, Fab. I had no idea you never knew.” Her mouth twitches to one side, the way Mom’s always did when she was holding something back. “No wonder they were so hell bent on keeping me away. I tried to come home once. You must have been three or four. And it was your birthday. I’d been working part-time as a hotel clerk and I saved enough to buy you one of those little foam baseball bats and a pack of whiffle balls. Your dad—your biological dad—was really into sports, so I assumed maybe you would be too. Anyway, I showed up that morning, and Dad told me I was no longer welcome under their roof. I peeked in the window and saw you eating pancakes at the table with Mom. She was singing some Etta James song and you were grinning, covered in syrup, and you looked so happy, Fabian. So content.”
“Wait, they wouldn’t let you see me?”
“In their defense, I was probably strung out at the time. Things are kind of foggy when I think that far back,” she scratches the back of her neck. “My mind isn’t what it used to be. But I’ll never forget that smile of yours as you looked at Mom like she hung the moon. And she was pretty great. As far as moms go, I mean. She tried with me. She did her best. I wasn’t easy. I gave them a run for their money.”
My face tightens. “Yeah, but they shouldn’t have abandoned you just because they got a second chance.”
“What are we going to do about it now, huh?” She shrugs, flashing a crooked, bittersweet smile. “They’re six feet under, and it’s not like we can undo three decades’ worth of damage. Regardless, I think you turned out okay, don’t you think?”
I drag my hand along my jaw, shaking my head.
It still isn’t right.
And while I’ll forever love my parents and be grateful for everything they did for me, it’s going to be a while before I can forgive them for taking this secret to the grave.
“You had a good life, kid,” she says. “I think I made the right call, leaving you with them and staying out of the way.”
We sit in silence, the TV flickering, soundless on the other side of the room.
Mom was forty-four when I was born, which was why she said I was such a surprise. They weren’t “expecting” me—which makes sense now because Frankie was the one doing the “expecting.” They’d always told me I was an unplanned surprise. Guess they weren’t lying.
“I’m sorry you had to go through all of that,” I say.
“And I’m sorry you had to find out this way.” Standing, her knees pop and she takes the last swig from her soda can. “You okay?”
“I will be. I just need time to digest all of this.”
She chuffs. “I’m sure you do. Anyway, I’d love to hang out and catch up a little more, but my new boss is a dick and if I’m late one more time—”
I rise. “No, it’s fine. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to continue this conversation sometime?”
A million questions linger unspoken—the identity of my biological father, for starters.
She studies me. “Yeah, all right. Sure.”
Sliding my phone out, I create a new contact for her. “What’s the best way to reach you?”
She rattles off ten digits. “I don’t have texting though.”
“Noted.” I walk to the door, turning back to add, “You don’t have to stay away anymore, Frankie. I want you to know that.”