Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Where’d that come from?”
“Mack brought it for me. He’s such a good boy.”
“He is.”
“They’re in love, ya know.”
I know but refuse to acknowledge it. I fill my mug and turn to look at her. “I was in love when I was Mack and Paige’s age.”
Her hand stills. I know what I’ve said has upset her. It was a low blow.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re right. You were in love and your father and I didn’t support you.” She closes the paper and looks at me. “Worse, we kept your son from knowing who his family is. Those are moments in my life that I can’t get back and will continue to regret.”
“In your defense—”
“In my defense, I was a drunk. I allowed a man to manipulate and control me. What I thought was love, was abuse. That abuse transferred to you. I lived in fear. Watching you walk out, seeing Josie at the door and in the supermarket with Noah—that was the catalyst for change. The day you returned for Mason’s funeral, was the day I knew I had to change or I was going to die a bitter old woman.”
“Thank you . . . for changing.”
“Short of giving birth to you, it’s been the best damn decision of my life. Well, you accepting me into your life is up there as well. Because of you, I have friends in Michael and Tess, a beautiful family, and I’m a great grandma. I wasn’t the best mother, but you can be damn sure, I’m going to be the best grandma I can be.”
I sniff hard and turn away to clear my throat. We’re quiet for a long moment.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
I fill my mug even though it doesn’t need it and then do the same for her. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“I heard the caller,” she says, not elaborating on which one.
“I can’t shake him, which is stupid because . . . I don’t know.” I sigh heavily. “It was probably Nick anyway. He made a comment at the bar the other day about it.”
“But?”
“But it wasn’t Nick. This man sounded older and he mentioned his son. Said he wasn’t the father his kid needed. Told himself he was doing his best, and the truth was he didn’t try very hard, and by the time he figured that out the boy was grown and gone, and he didn’t know if he had any right to come knocking.
“I told him it’s never too late to try. Told him reaching out isn’t about easing his own guilt, it’s about handing his son the choice he never got. Show up. Tell the truth. Don’t reach for a single excuse. Then be man enough to take a no, if no is what comes back.” I shake my head. “Good advice. I’d stand behind every word of it. It’s just been stuck in me ever since and I couldn’t tell you why. Something about the voice. I knew it and I didn’t. Couldn’t put a face on it.”
When I finally look at my mom, her hands flat on the island countertop. Her expression is blank and her eyes are distant.
“Mom.”
“Say the rest of it?”
“How he talked?”
She nods.
I think of how to describe what I remember. “Slow. Careful. Like he had to think about each word before he said it or like the words were being dragged from him.”
“That’s your father.” Her words punch me in the gut. There’s no way he would call. The last time we spoke, I found him in the grocery store, cowering over Peyton. I wanted to strangle him.
“Nah.”
“Answer me this. Did he stop before he got to the word son?”
“…Yeah.” I go cold. “No,” I say.
“Liam.”
“No. There’s a thousand sorry old men in this state who—”
“You already know this in your heart. The voice was familiar because you know it you just don’t want to believe he’d have the gall to call you and say something like this for the world to hear.”
She stands, comes to me and puts her hand over mine. Hers is shaking, a little. That’s how I know she’s already sure. “That was your father. That was Sterling, on your show, asking a room full of strangers how to get back to you. And you’re the one who told him how.”
I don’t say anything. There’s a sound in my ears that isn’t coming from the room.
I’ve pictured a lot of ways my father might turn back up after all this time. A letter from a lawyer. An obituary. I never once pictured this one. Yet, I put myself out there, opened myself up for him to do this.
“He doesn’t get to do that,” I say, and it comes out lower than I mean it to. “He doesn’t get to be the sad old man on the radio. He doesn’t get to be a thing people feel sorry for. He had a wife and a kid and a whole life and he ground every one of us down because we weren’t the sheep he expected us to be, and now what. He’s tired? He’s scared?”