That includes walking away from the man I love.
I’ve lied to him enough. It’s time I tell him the truth.
“I know you have questions,” I say.
“Just one,” he says, and I brace myself to hear the question I’ve been dreading for almost eight months.
He looks at me with those stunning blue eyes of his, then drops to one knee. “Marry me?” All the air in my chest comes out in a swift breath, and my knees wobble. “You shouldn’t be so shocked. I’ve asked you before.”
Tears start flowing down my cheeks, and I drop to my knees beside him. “I can’t marry you. I can’t.”
“Because of whatever you’re hiding?” he asks.
“Yes,” I sob.
“I don’t care what it is,” he says. “I want you to be my wife.”
“But . . .”
“I need you to listen.” He tilts my chin up to look in my eyes, rubbing his finger down Finn’s arm. Finn’s little hand wraps around Slade’s finger. “You are my son,” he whispers.
I close my eyes tightly. “Dada,” Finn says happily.
“Forever,” Slade says, kissing the top of his head before turning his eyes to me.
“Slade?”
“I need you to hear me.” I nod, knowing he’s sucking me in. I knew he’d put up a fight, but I didn’t know it would be this hard. “This will always be your home.”
Softly, I kiss his lips. “No matter where I am, you will always be my home.”
“Mamamamama,” Finn babbles out.
Tears stream down my face. I try to stop them, but I can’t. I know Finn probably doesn’t know what he’s saying, but this should be a happy moment. Unfortunately, it’s wrapped up in too many lies. I’ve been lying to everyone for months, and my lies have run out.
“No, Finn,” I say. “Not Mama.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
LAST YEAR
DECEMBER 1ST
PAIGE
Leaving my dorm, I take two buses across the city of Memphis to reach the run-down public housing where my mom lives. If the kids at school who whine about having roommates and using community showers spent a night or two here, they’d never complain again.
Holding my purse tight across my chest, I walk the mile from the bus stop to my mom’s place. Anyone who grew up here knows there’s a certain way to walk. You can’t show fear. You have to walk with confidence, an attitude that you aren’t to be messed with, but it’s a fine line. You don’t want to look cocky, like you’re daring someone to start something or looking for trouble because you will find it.
I don’t fit in here anymore. I can still walk the walk, but my clothes, my hair, everything else screams college girl. Of course, I don’t really fit in on my college campus either. My clothes aren’t designer, my hair isn’t highlighted, and my shoes are for comfort instead of style. So basically, I don’t fit in there, but I don’t fit in here.
You won’t hear me complain, though. I have a full college scholarship and a small stipend for incidentals. I work on campus, too, and that’s enough to afford me clothes from discount stores and any other thing I might need.
I’m lucky. When you age out of the system, you typically get nothing. You are no longer the state’s responsibility. You aren’t your foster parents’ responsibility. Basically, you’re the walking dead. I’m one of the lucky few.
Some guy from an above balcony yells something obscene at me. My instinct is to flip him the bird, but I don’t want to invite trouble.
I really thought I was done with this neighborhood, this life. I hadn’t heard from my mom in close to a year when she sent me a letter six months ago. No matter how many times I’ve moved around, I always let her know where I am. The first few years, I stayed in touch a lot more, but as I got older, I realized I couldn’t save her, so I vowed to stay away. That is, until I got her letter.
Her ground-floor apartment door is splintered and chipped. No woman should ever live on the ground floor, that’s self-defense 101, but my mom thinks it’s the best for her “work” and easy access when she’s flying high.
I’ve done my best to try to keep her clean these past few months, but I can’t watch her all the time. I bring her what little money I can scrape together. I’m sure I’m breaking all kinds of student aid laws doing that, but my mom has made it clear she can’t work in her condition. Who’d want to pay to have sex with a pregnant woman?
Actually, I’m sure some perverts would be into that, but if her ever-growing belly is the excuse she needs to stop turning tricks, then I’m not going to fight her on it.
“Mom!” I call out as I open her door, which she hadn’t even bothered to lock. The place is basically three rooms. You walk into the small den, which is attached to the even smaller kitchen. One small corner of the den houses baby items I’ve been collecting over the past few months. The rest of the apartment is my mom’s room and one bathroom. The whole thing is a mess. Papers scattered about, old food and dishes litter the counter and the coffee table. She doesn’t have nice furniture or anything, but I’ve always thought it would be a lot nicer if she at least kept it clean.
A small groan comes from her bedroom. Pushing open the door, I find her on the bed wearing only a long T-shirt, her arm in a tourniquet as she attempts to stick a needle in her vein. Instinctively, I hit her hand, knocking it to the wall.
“Stupid bitch,” she yells at me. “I need that. The baby’s coming.”
“What?” I cry, putting down my purse and hustling beside her. “You said you had three more weeks.”
She just shrugs and says, “I need that for the pain.”
For the past six months, I’ve come over two to three times a week, making the one-hour trip by bus to bring her food, money, vitamins. I didn’t do it for my mom. I did it for my little baby brother or sister. My mom doesn’t deserve my help, but that little baby does. To my knowledge, she’s had very little prenatal care. She says she’s gone once or twice to some free clinic, but who knows what’s true and what’s not. Honestly, I’m not sure why she even kept this baby. I know she’s had abortions before. How many? I can’t tell you. Maybe she didn’t realize she was pregnant until it was too late? Maybe she thought this baby would heal her? I have no idea.
She cries out in pain, and I look at my watch to try to time the contractions. I know that much from my nursing classes. I thought I had a little longer. I’d planned to read up on labor and delivery when my final exams for the semester were over. I’m not prepared for this.
I don’t know what contractions only two minutes apart even means. “Let’s get you to the hospital,” I say, trying to help lift her.
“No hospitals,” she says, moaning and groaning in bed, trying to find some position that may be comfortable.
Nothing with my mom is ever easy unless you’re a paying customer. That’s not very nice of me, but it’s true. Looking at my mom, anyone can see that she was beautiful once upon a time—long dark hair, dark eyes, model thin. Perhaps she would still be considered beautiful if she wasn’t so messed up.