Not because it was weird that an old lady was singing a lullaby in the kitchen—even though it was super fucking weird—or because the song in question was the most common lullaby played by every baby toy that played music and, also, my favorite. But because I knew that voice.
When I was a kid, I’d had this old bear; it was brown and worn out and one of the few toys my father never threw into the fire. It had a recording of this lullaby inside it, and I’d played it over and over every time I was scared and alone.
Eventually, I’d worn out the mechanism inside, and it’d been a sad day when there was no more “Lullaby.” I’d felt a real sense of loss, and to hear it now was fucking with my head.
I could swear that Brooklyn’s housekeeper sounded exactly like that old bear. But… the fuck? How would that even be possible? Was her side hustle recording shit for toy companies?
Needing answers, I barged through the kitchen doors, startling the hell out of the poor lady there. When she spun, a plate in her hand that she held up like a crappy shield, I stood there staring at her like I’d seen a ghost.
Or my own damn twin. The female version with about twenty extra years on me.
“What the fuck?” I growled, because I was smooth like that. Handling heavy emotions was not my strong suit, and right now, the thoughts going through my head were a dark mess.
“Language, Dylan,” she scolded softly, recovering far quicker than I had. She placed the white dish back on the table.
Meanwhile, I was still standing there like an idiot with my mouth half open, hands fisted at my sides—because I knew this woman, even though I’d never met her. Mary looked just like me.
“I suppose Brooklyn sent you down here,” she said with a shake of her head. “I never could get anything past that girl. She’s a bright one, and you are very lucky to have her.”
“I know that,” I bit out. “Brooklyn is the best part of my life. Today, yesterday, always.”
But that wasn’t what we needed to deal with now. Now, I needed some answers, or I was going to lose my cool and turn this kitchen into rubble.
Mary let out a deep sigh before she grabbed a plate of cookies, poured two glasses of milk like we were children, and then set them in front of two barstools. She sat on one, patted the other’s seat, smiled at me kindly, and waited for my next move.
Like a fucking bitch, I almost cried then and there. It had been a long time since I’d shed a tear, but this moment almost destroyed me. Trying to get my shit under control, I focused on breathing as my feet carried me forward. I must have dropped into the chair, but I remembered nothing about how I’d gotten here. All I could see and think about was Mary.
Mary… who I was fairly certain was my mother.
She pushed the cookies and milk toward me, and I ignored them. It was an obvious mom move, and she might as well have just stabbed me in the fucking chest.
“I know you must have a lot of questions,” she said softly when it was clear I had no interest in partaking of her—admittedly delicious-looking—cookies.
“You think?”
I was not handling this very well, but fuck, why on one of the best days of my life did I have to run into this emotional shitstorm of a situation?
“Are you my mother?”
Blunt. It was about all I had in me tonight.
Mary clasped her hands together, and it was only now that I saw how difficult she was finding this as well. She’d been fairly successful at containing her sorrow, but deep in the well of her eyes, it was there. “Yes, Dylan, you’re my son.”
The urge to throw the fucking plate into a wall hit me, hard and fast, but I managed to stop myself at the last minute. It had taken me years, but I controlled my emotions, not the other way around… except when it came to Brooklyn, apparently. But she was an understandable exception.
Mymotherwas apparently on edge as well. My hands trembled, and normally I’d bail the fuck out of here and go smash a punching bag for a while. But I couldn’t keep doing that. The reason it had taken Brooklyn and me so long to sort our shit out was because of our woeful communication skills.
I couldn’t do that here. I’d waited a long time to see my mother, half assuming she was dead, and Iwouldget my answers.
“I’m going to need your story,” I rumbled. “From the beginning.”
She didn’t look surprised, more resigned. “That’s fair. I’ll give you the condensed version since I’m sure you’re keen to head back and check on your girl.”
I nodded, content with that. I did want to get back to Brooke, but this was just as important to me tonight.
“I was young, naïve, and dirt poor. My parents died when I was sixteen, and if I hadn’t gotten a job as a housekeeper, I would have been hooking on the streets.”
My father had always told me he’d saved her from a life ofspreading her legs.Who knew he wasn’t a complete fucking liar.
