Chapter 3
I didn't go home alone.
That was the first decision I made without asking my mother for permission.
Marcus drove me to our house just before six.
The familiar white porch looked exactly as it had that morning.
But I felt like a stranger approaching it.
My mother's silver SUV was in the driveway.
The front door was unlocked.
Inside, I heard drawers opening and slamming.
"Maya?" she called.
I walked into the living room.
Marcus followed.
My mother stood beside the coffee table with a stack of papers in her hands.
When she saw him, her expression darkened.
"I told you to come alone."
"And I decided not to."
She stared at me.
"Excuse me?"
"I want answers, Mom."
She tossed the papers onto the table.
"This man is poisoning you against me."
Marcus remained by the doorway.
"Vanessa, don't make this about me."
"Everything became about you the moment you decided to steal my daughter."
I felt my face grow hot.
"I'm standing right here."
She ignored me.
"You think a few legal papers make you her father?"
"No," Marcus replied. "Raising her did."
My mother laughed.
It was a cold, ugly sound.
"You have no idea what I sacrificed."
"Then tell me," I said.
She turned.
"What?"
"Tell me what you sacrificed. Tell me what happened to my biological father."
Her smile disappeared.
"I already explained that."
"Explain it again."
"He left us."
"Then why did he call when I was nine?"
She froze.
I watched her eyes move toward Marcus.
"You told her?"
"She deserves to know."
My mother took a step toward him.
"That man had no right contacting her."
"Why not?" I demanded.
"Because he was dangerous."
"What did he do?"
She opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
"That's complicated."
"Was he violent?"
"No."
"Was he involved in drugs?"
"No."
"Did he hurt me?"
"Of course not!"
"Then why was he dangerous?"
Her silence made my skin prickle.
Finally, she said, "He wanted to take you away from me."
I stared at her.
"Did he?"
"He threatened to."
"When?"
"Maya, I refuse to relive this."
"Did he actually threaten you?"
She slammed her palm against the table.
"I am your mother!"
I flinched.
Marcus moved closer.
"Don't shout at her."
My mother pointed at him.
"Get out of my house!"
He looked at me.
"Do you want me to leave?"
"No."
He nodded and stayed.
My mother stared between us.
Something in her expression shifted.
She realized she no longer controlled the room.
Then she began crying.
Real tears, or something that looked like them.
"After everything I've done for you," she whispered, "this is how you repay me?"
My chest tightened.
I knew this version of my mother.
The wounded mother.
The misunderstood mother.
The woman who could turn any accusation into proof that she was the victim.
For years, I had comforted her whenever she cried.
But this time, I stood still.
"I need the truth."
She wiped her face.
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
She looked toward the stairs.
Then at the clock.
"I have a headache."
I almost smiled.
The conversation was over because she said it was over.
That was how our family worked.
Except it wasn't going to work anymore.
"I'm going to my room," I said.
"Good."
"And afterward, I'm staying with Dad."
Her head snapped up.
"No, you're not."
"I'm eighteen."
"You live under my roof."
"Not tonight."
She grabbed my arm.
Marcus stepped forward.
"Vanessa."
She released me immediately.
For a second, I saw hatred in her eyes.
Not toward him.
Toward me.
It frightened me more than her shouting.
I went upstairs.
My bedroom looked untouched.
My graduation photographs were still arranged across my dresser.
A childhood picture of Marcus carrying me on his shoulders sat beside my bed.
I packed two bags.
Clothes.
My laptop.
My birth certificate.
My savings account statements.
Then I noticed my old memory box beneath the bed.
Inside were birthday cards, school ribbons, and letters I had written as a child.
At the bottom was a blue envelope.
I didn't recognize it.
My name was written across the front in unfamiliar handwriting.
MAYA CARTER.
The postmark was from nine years earlier.
I opened it.
Inside was a birthday card covered with faded pictures of butterflies.
On the first page, someone had written:
Happy ninth birthday, my beautiful girl.
I have tried calling, but I keep being told you don't want to speak to me.
I don't believe that.
I love you. I always have.
Please remember that none of this is your fault.
Love, Dad.
I sat on the floor.
My breathing became shallow.
There was more.
A photograph.
A younger man with warm brown eyes was holding a little girl in a pink coat.
Me.
I recognized the small scar above my eyebrow.
The same scar I'd gotten after falling from a bicycle when I was four.
The man was smiling at me as though I was his entire world.
On the back, he had written:
The day Maya learned to ride. I'm still proud of you, baby girl.
I pressed the picture against my chest.
My mother said he never cared.
Yet here was proof that he had tried to reach me.
My hands shook as I searched through the rest of the box.
There were three more envelopes.
All addressed to me.
All unopened.
One included a photograph of a little boy.
On the back were the words:
Your brother, Isaiah. He asks about you every day.
I stopped breathing.
My brother?
I had a brother?
Downstairs, I heard my mother's voice.
"Where is she?"
Marcus answered something I couldn't hear.
Then footsteps approached the stairs.
I quickly placed the letters in my backpack.
The bedroom door opened.
My mother stood there.
Her eyes went straight to the blue envelope in my hand.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered, "Where did you find that?"
My throat hurt.
"You told me he never wrote."
Her face turned pale.
"Maya, give me the letter."
"Who is Isaiah?"
She gripped the doorframe.
"Give it to me."
"Who is my brother?"
She crossed the room so quickly that I stepped backward.
"Those letters were never supposed to reach you."
The words escaped before she could stop them.
We both heard them.
My mother covered her mouth.
I stared at her.
"You knew."
She said nothing.
"You knew he was writing to me."
"Maya—"
"You knew I had a brother."
"Listen."
"How many letters did you hide?"
Her eyes filled with panic.
I moved toward the door.
She blocked it.
"Your father didn't deserve you."
I looked directly at her.
"That was never your decision to make."
She grabbed my backpack.
I held on.
The zipper tore open.
The photograph fell between us.
My mother looked down at the picture of Daniel holding me.
Then she whispered something I would never forget.
"He was supposed to be dead to you."
May you like
I pushed past her.
And for the first time, I left my childhood home without looking back.
