Chapter 7
I read the note so many times that the words blurred.
I don’t want money.
I only want to know my daughter.
My first reaction was anger at the man.
My second was anger at my mother.
My third was fear that Dad would look at me differently.
He didn’t.
He sat beside me at the kitchen table.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did Mom ever tell you about him?”
“No.”
“Did she say he might come back?”
“Never.”
“Does he know where I am?”
“I don’t know.”
The document listed an old address and a phone number that had been disconnected.
I searched his name online.
There were hundreds of Marcus Reeds.
The first result was a local attorney. The second was a musician. The third was a high school coach in a town two hours away.
Dad called the family lawyer who had handled my mother’s estate. The lawyer found the old case file but said he couldn’t disclose current information without knowing whether Marcus had maintained contact with the court.
The petition had been filed when I was three.
It had been withdrawn three months later.
“Why?” I asked.
“The file doesn’t say.”
“Did Mom ask him to stop?”
“Maybe.”
“Did he choose to leave?”
“Maybe.”
The uncertainty became its own kind of pain.
I had spent my childhood thinking Dad was the only father I’d ever have. He had been there at every school performance, every fever, every scraped knee. The word biological seemed too small to change anything, but it still opened a door I hadn’t known existed.
I wanted answers.
I also felt guilty for wanting them.
Dad seemed to understand.
“You don’t have to meet him,” he said. “You don’t owe him anything.”
“What if I want to?”
“Then I’ll support you.”
“What if you’re hurt?”
“I might be. That wouldn’t make your choice wrong.”
That was the first time I understood how different love could be from ownership.
We contacted the lawyer and left a message for the court clerk. The next morning, we received a call from a woman named Denise Reed.
She was Marcus’s sister.
She said he had moved to the coast but returned to the area after his wife died. He had kept a copy of the original petition. He still asked about me.
“I can give you his number,” Denise said, “but I won’t pressure you to call.”
I wrote it down.
Then I put the paper in my desk.
For two days, I didn’t touch it.
In those same two days, Vanessa returned to the house to collect the rest of her things. She and Dad had decided to separate while they worked through counseling. Mia stayed with her father.
Vanessa packed quietly.
She paused in my doorway.
“I’m sorry I used your essay.”
I sat at my desk.
“Why did you think it was okay?”
“I thought the story belonged to the family.”
“The words were mine.”
“I know that now.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
“I thought you’d be generous.”
“Generous?”
“I told myself you would be glad to help Mia.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“No.”
“And when you realized you’d hurt me, you tried to get me punished.”
“Yes.”
The simple admission left nowhere to hide.
“Why did you hate me?”
“I didn’t hate you.”
“You acted like you did.”
“I was jealous.”
“Of what?”
“Of the way David loved you. Of the way he remembered your mother. I knew I could never give you the same history.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“Was it Mia’s fault either?”
Vanessa looked at the floor.
“She could see me upset. She thought she was defending me.”
“By hurting me?”
“She learned that from me.”
The honesty came too late to make everything better.
“Do you want us to forgive you?” I asked.
“I want to earn the chance.”
“Then don’t ask for it today.”
“I won’t.”
She took the last box downstairs.
The home felt different after she left. Less crowded. More truthful, but also more empty.
That night, I called Marcus.
He answered after the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“My name is Aaliyah.”
There was a pause.
“I know,” he said. “I’ve heard your voice in my head for twenty years, but I never imagined what it would sound like.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Did you know about me?” I asked.
“I knew your mother was pregnant. I didn’t know if she wanted me involved.”
“You filed for contact.”
“I did.”
“Then you withdrew it.”
“I was told she didn’t want you to meet me. The court said I could keep fighting, but I thought that would make things worse for her.”
“Did you stop looking?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you contact Dad?”
“I tried once. Your mother asked me not to.”
“When?”
“After she married him. She said you were happy and loved. She asked me to let you grow up without the confusion.”
“Did you?”
“I did. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
I thought of the letter Mom had written. The one where she said she was afraid he might take me away.
“Were you going to take me?”
“No.”
“Did you want custody?”
“I wanted to know you. I wanted to see whether you had my eyes. I wanted to hear what music you liked. I wanted to give you a birthday present. None of that meant I wanted to take you from the person raising you.”
The words sounded sincere.
That frightened me more than if they had sounded rehearsed.
“Can we meet?” I asked.
“If you want to.”
“Somewhere public. With my dad.”
“Of course.”
When I hung up, I went downstairs.
Dad was washing a mug.
“I called him.”
He turned off the tap.
“How do you feel?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to meet?”
“Yes.”
He dried his hands.
“Then we’ll go together.”
Mia called that night. She had heard about Marcus from her father, who had spoken to Dad.
“Is it true?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to meet him?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean you’ll leave?”
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t know. But meeting someone isn’t the same as leaving.”
Mia was quiet.
“I wish I hadn’t made everything worse.”
“You can’t change the past.”
“I know.”
“You can change what you do next.”
“I’m trying.”
“I’ll see.”
We arranged the meeting for Saturday at a quiet café by the water.
May you like
I slept badly the night before.
Dad slept even less.
