It’s a photo of a girl maybe a few years older than me. A man stands behind her, both arms curled around her waist, and he smiles against her hair as the tousled strands whip his face.
“What about it?”
“Do you really not recognize your own parents?” She looks at the screen again, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I suppose a twenty-nine-year difference would make anyone difficult to recognize. Anyhow, that’s not really what I wanted to show you.”
She scrolls again and eventually settles on another photo, this one of a baby in a hospital. My parents both hover over the newborn, my father’s forehead resting on my mother’s, and Isaac’s three-year-old grin is bright enough to blind me as he giggles on the hospital bed.
My swallow burns my throat.
“You were a beautiful baby,” my mom whispers, tracing the edges of the photo with a red fingernail. “Perfect.”
My eyes shut, and I force the pressure in my chest to subside. “Why are you showing me these?”
“My mother had a severe case of postpartum depression. She never figured out how to connect with or love her children. I admit, it hasn’t been easy to learn how to be a good mother when I never had one of my own.” She lifts a shoulder, brows knitting, and stares at the photo on the screen. “Or maybe I just never developed that gene. Themomgene.” When she returns her gaze to me, it’s surprisingly transparent. “I had children for Vincent, you know?” She rolls her eyes. “How wonderfully that worked out.”
I don’t know what to say. What she’s expecting. It’s the first time in my life she’s told me anything personal, and I don’t want to shut her up by saying the wrong thing.
“This may surprise you, but as a child, I mapped my entire life out.”
“Actually—”
She holds up her palm, halting me. “I know. It’s easy to imagine a more carefree younger version of me, but the truth is, I decided a long time ago what my future would look like. I would become the perfect wife, in the perfect house, with a perfect life.” Her fingers are unsteady as they tease the pearls around her neck. “As it turns out, those things are easier said than done.”
My voice is quiet but rough when I say, “Well, you got the perfect house.”
She laughs dryly. “Yes, well, I worked hard for it. And I think ... if I work hard enough ... I think I could be a decent mom.” She holds her head high. “I’m willing to try anyway. And in light of that, there’s one last picture I need to show you.”
“Mom.” I squeeze the back of my neck. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This. I know this isn’t easy for you, and if you’re feeling guilty or whatever—”
“I believe we just covered that my heart is made of stone, Easton. I’m fine.” She looks down and scrolls through her photo album again.
My gaze softens on her. If anything, all she’s proven is she’s more sentimental than she ever led me to believe.
“Here we are.” Avoiding my gaze, she hands her phone to me.
My brows slant as I stare at the stranger in the photo. It’s a young guy, maybe mid-twenties, leaning against a brick mortar building, an easy smile on his face and black hair touching his ears.
“Travis Romano,” my mom says, shifting her weight on her heels. “Your biological father.”
Shock hits me so hard my vision blurs, and the colors in the photo blend together. My throat goes dry.
“He was from Jersey, a fireman. But more importantly, he was already a father. I knew he could give me what I thought Vincent needed. He was divorced and didn’t know I was married, so if you’re looking for someone to blame, you can look at me.”
I can’t take my eyes off the photo. He looks so much like me, but a stranger. When I hear the wordfather, despite everything he’s put me through, I still think of Vincent. Not the Vincent who made me feel invisible; the Vincent in the hospital room who made me feel seen.
“Easton?”
Eva’s soft voice brings me back to the present, but my emotions are still disjointed when I turn to see her in the doorway. She frowns as our eyes connect, then she walks close and peers at the picture in my hand. A small sound leaves her lips as she looks between me and the man in the photo. She runs her fingers down my arm, then squeezes slightly.
“Well,” my mom says, reminding me of her presence, “if you don’t mind, I’ll just take that.” She plucks the phone from my grip, plops it into her purse, pats the handbag twice, and smiles. “I’ll send you a copy. And Eva ... you did well in there.” She nods at Eva, her face contorting strangely—eyes squinting, lips pulling back in a grimace that shows teeth. I can’t decide if she’s trying to smile or if she’s constipated. “I’ll be off now. Please see that this boy gets back to his room andstaysthere.”
She’s about to walk past us when she pauses. Then, she pats Eva’s head twice, the same way she did her handbag. “You’re ... you’re a good girl,” she says, looks away. “Okaythen.” She disappears down the hall.
Eva meets my gaze. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again.
