“Happy?”I ask incredulously. “The person who was supposed to love me unconditionally abandoned me—a thought I took to bed with me every night, thanks to you—and you thought I washappy?”
Yes, I was lucky to have been placed with kind and supportive foster families over the years, but they never replaced my mother. She’d made grave mistakes and terrible decisions with regards to my safety, but she was still the woman who’d sung me lullabies and hugged me the way only your own mother can.
“Aside from a criminal record, I had nothing, Patton. No job, no money, no place to sleep at night.” Her voice catches as she tips her head back, placing the heels of her hands over her eyes. “You have no idea how much it broke me to walk away from you. But I did it because I thought it was the only way to give you a real chance.”
“You hadstrangersraise me. Is that what you call giving me a real chance?”
Her watery gaze meets mine before she quickly averts it, biting her chapped lips. “Do you think you would have become the man you are today, the movie star, if you’d been raised in another trailer park? Those strangers gave you the schooling and safety I never could.”
It was because of them that I met Nisha.
The thought tempers a bit of my incredulity and ire.
“When I tell you I had nothing, Patton, I’m not exaggerating. I couldn’t have given you the life you deserved, but they could.Theydid.” She waves a hand in my direction. “And look at you now; you’re exactly as you should have turned out.”
My stomach churns with mixed emotions as I lean back in the booth. A part of me understands what she means. I might even be able to empathize with her situation and her decision to some degree.
But forgiveness?
The other part of me knows I won’t get there today.
I forget how much time passes after that, words spilling between us slowly, mixed with hesitation and moments of silence. My coffee turns cold, and the donut sits untouched between us, a sweet confectionary in the middle of a bitter reckoning.
She tells me about her time in prison and life afterward, hopping from one job to the next without a landing pad. She tells me that she kicked the addiction to hard drugs a decade ago, but alcohol was still a crutch until four years ago, when she decided to get sober and find me.
And as much as I want to ask why it took her so long to decide to find me, I bite back the words. Because the answer won’t undo the damage, and it certainly won’t bring back those lost years.
So I just nod and let her talk. There’s something raw and earnest in her face when she speaks, like she’s clutching her sobriety with both hands, proof that she’s working harder than she ever has, proof that she deserves a second chance in both life and with me.
I get the sense that speaking about her past and being vulnerable doesn’t come easy to her.
“What about now?” I ask. “You’re working here at the waffle house. Why are you still living at the shelter?”
“I get more than just a bed at the shelter,” she says quietly. “They have counseling, support groups, and meals.” She smiles, playing with a strand of her hair. “They even have this sweetyoung lady who comes in to cut our hair on the weekends. Everyone at the shelter loves her.”
“Wait a minute.” My heart kicks my ribs like a soccer ball. “Are you at the shelter on the corner of Glen and Overton?”
“Yeah, the San Jose Safe Haven.”
My pulse spikes, and for a moment, I’m completely speechless.
Holy shit, what are the chances? Of all the shelters in the city, and all the women my mother could have crossed paths with, she had to meetmy Nisha.
My hand reaches for my phone inside my suit jacket and then my pant pockets, coming up empty. I honestly can’t believe I’d forgotten about it all this time.
“How long have we been talking?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend, a sense of foreboding churning inside my stomach.
Your girlfriend slash ex-wife slash the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with is about to have your baby any day now, dumbass! Why haven’t you had your phone on you?
“About two hours.”
Oh, God. I’m already sliding out of the booth. “I must have left my phone in my truck.”
“Patton?” Abigail’s soft voice barely registers over my racing thoughts. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s not just the girl who cuts your hair,” I say, rushing toward the door. “She’s my ex-wife, my girlfriend, the love of my fucking life . . . and she’s having my daughter.”
Outside, I yank open the door to my truck, spotting my phone right there in the cupholder. My stomach drops like a free-falling elevator when I see the numbers on the screen.
