Chapter 35

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

DANIEL

I made it to the coffee shop long before Meghan. I didn't want to be late so I took an early bus and waited for Margo to be dropped off. She got here about ten minutes after me.

Margo stands in line, looking at the menu board. "So what'll it be? I'll buy."

There is no way I'm letting her buy me something. "I'm good."

"Nope. Pick something. Anything. They have great hot cocoa here or you could get coffee."

There's something about her expression that tells me I'm not going to win. "You're stubborn."

"Caffeine or chocolate?"

"I don't really like coffee."

"Then hot cocoa it is," she says.

"But you don't need to buy it," I say.

She waves that thought away and steps up to order. "We'd like one peppermint hot cocoa, and a small vanilla cold brew, blended. Oh, and lots of whipped cream on both. "

The barista smiles. "No problem. That'll be ten dollars and sixty cents."

I pull out cash and hand it to the cashier.

"Hey," Margo says. "I told you I'd pay."

"Too late," I say, taking my change back with a smirk. "You can grab the drinks. I'll get the table."

Her mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. It's like she doesn't know how to react when I do something out of character.

I have to admit... it's fun. I like how big her eyes get when she's surprised. I love her eyes, period.

There aren't that many tables to choose from. The place is pretty small, but I find a table near the windows that isn't taken. I sit, waiting.

Margo comes over a minute later and sits across from me.

I reach for my drink, but she swats my hand away.

"What's wrong?"

She tilts her head. "I told you I wanted to pay."

I shrug, looking away. "I don't know what you mean."

Her eyes narrow. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"So you're going to hold my drink hostage to make up for it?"

She sighs, moving my drink toward me. "I don't know what to do with you half the time."

The drink looks good. It has way too much whipped cream, but there are worse crimes in the world. "I've never had peppermint in my hot cocoa."

Her jaw drops. "Then what are you waiting for? Take a sip. I promise you, you'll never drink regular hot cocoa again. It's mind blowing. "

I take a sip. The chocolate coats my mouth, leaving behind a hint of peppermint.

"And?"

"It's good." It's something I probably would've never tried, but I like it. I was worried it would be too sweet, but it's just the right amount.

She nods. "I know. You're welcome."

I sit back, staring out the window. It's strange watching all the people driving by. Each person is going about their day. They all have their own worries, I'm sure, but I doubt any of them grew up the way I did. I wonder what it would be like to always belong, right from the beginning.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks.

My attention redirects to her. "Nothing."

She takes my hand. "You don't have to be scared. I'm right here." The warmth of her hand calms me.

She's right. I don't need to be scared. I'm going to find out the truth—what I've been yearning for, and yet, I can't keep still. My feet tap underneath the table, and I can't stop fidgeting with my drink. There's something about meeting someone who knew my mom, really knew her, that has my nervous system imploding. Grandma never wanted to talk about her. It was almost like she wanted to pretend my mom never existed. She said it was better that way. My mom abandoned me, after all.

Margo looks out the window, squinting. "Is that her?"

There's a woman with soft blonde hair who appears to be in her late thirties walking toward the entrance of the café. She wears a tan trench coat that reaches the tops of her boots. As soon as she walks in, she lifts her sunglasses and positions them on top of her head. She looks around.

Margo stands up, waving. "Meghan? "

Meghan smiles and starts to walk closer. "Hello, you must be Margo, and you must—" Her eyes fall on me, and she stops dead in her tracks, words catching in her throat. "You have her eyes."

My eyes dart away, trying to avoid the attention by looking anywhere but at her.

She comes up to me and takes my hand, shaking it with both of her hands. "You must be Daniel."

I nod. "That's me."

She shakes my hand for an awkwardly long time before letting go and staggering back. "Sorry, I— It's nice to finally meet you."

"You knew about me?" I ask. I thought I was a mistake that my mother never wanted. Why would she have told anyone about me?

"Of course," she says, sitting down. "I wish I had gotten the chance to meet you before now, but I lost contact after your mom passed."

Margo sits next to her and takes a sip of her drink. Then, wasting no time, she asks the question I'm too afraid to ask. "So what do you know about Daniel's father?"

Meghan takes a breath, easing into her chair. "Before I tell you that, I need you to understand why your mom chose to move away when she was pregnant with you."

I nod, giving her the green light to keep talking.

"They started dating sophomore year in high school, but your dad wasn't part of the best crowd. At first he didn't do much, but eventually he became addicted to drugs. She thought she could change him, but he changed her. He's the reason your mom got addicted too."

That doesn't mean it wasn't her fault. She had free will. She didn't have to choose that way of life, but she did. She chose it over me.

"Your mom moved when she found out she was pregnant with you," Meghan continues. "She wanted to get clean. She wanted a better life for you."

She wanted to get clean? For me? Then why didn't she?

I feel like Meghan can sense my questions without hearing them.

"She did that for you. She got clean for awhile," she says.

"My mom wasn't clean. She overdosed," I say.

"I know," Meghan says. "She relapsed about a year later. That's when your grandma got sole custody of you. She wouldn't let Ashley see you until she got clean again, and she told me she was trying to. Last she told me, she was six weeks clean." Meghan's eyes water. "I don't know what happened that night."

This isn't the story I grew up hearing.

Meghan takes a deep breath. "Anyway, the reason I'm telling you this is because your mom left your dad for a reason. He wasn't a good person at the time. She knew that as long as she was around him, she wouldn't be able to recover."

"And why are you telling me this?" I ask.

"Because as far as I know, he doesn't know about you. Ashley didn't want you to have anything to do with him." She takes a breath. "Now, after knowing that, do you still want to know who he is?"

I feel like this is a trick question. She's basically asking me if I want to go against my mother's wishes and find out the truth, or go on wondering who my father is for the rest of my life.

"I need to know," I say. Why should I do what my mom wanted? She's gone, leaving me with more scars than she could've ever imagined.

Meghan opens her purse and pulls out a photo. It's the same photo we used to find Meghan, except this copy isn't cut. My dad is in this picture. He's. Right. There. My hands shake as I take the picture from her. After all this time I finally know what he looks like. His hair is dark blond. He's tall and thin, and he slumps forward ever so slightly. He looks like me.

I set the photo down because touching it makes it too real.

"His name is Justin Thomas," Meghan says. "I looked into him, and from what I can tell, he's doing a lot better now. He works at a big tech company, and he's getting married soon."

I should feel relieved, but there's an anger building inside me. How can he have such a good life when he's the reason mine was so awful?

She keeps talking, but I don't hear what she's saying. I'm stuck in my head, picturing my dad and what he's doing now. Part of me wishes I could blend into his life. Would it be hard? Would I be able to fit in with him and his perfect life like I was always meant to be a part of it?

"I have something else for you," Meghan says, reaching into her purse again. This time she takes out a little paper sleeve of photos, the kind you get when you get photos printed or developed at the store. "Your mom sent me these, and I want you to have them." She sets it down in front of me on the table.

My fingers linger on the paper sleeve, scared to open it. My mind is cloudy, swimming with confusion and anger and sadness.

Like ripping off a Band-Aid, I open it up, and my chest tightens, anchoring to the ground .

They're pictures of my mom. My mom and me when I was a baby. Pictures I've never seen. Pictures where she's smiling and hugging me. Pictures where we're laughing and playing. She's happy. I'm happy.

I clutch the photos tighter as my eyes start to burn. I stand.

"What's wrong?" Margo asks.

I don't respond, and before I can think, I'm running out the door because I can't breathe. I need air, and I can't find it. No matter how hard I try, I can't take in a breath.

Outside, my breathing is ragged as I look around for an escape, a lifeline, but there isn't one.

I lean against the building, wiping away my tears on my sleeves. They shouldn't be there in the first place, and yet, I can't stop them from streaming. Why aren't these the memories I have of my mom and my childhood? Were we really as happy as we looked?

Margo runs outside and stands in front of me. Her brow is furrowed as she studies me. "What's going on?"

My vision blurs. The cars passing by on the road are nothing more than streaks of color behind Margo, and she isn't that much more in focus.

I open my mouth, searching for the words, but they're stuck at the back of my throat. I hand her the envelope instead.

Margo takes the photos out and stares at them, probably even more confused. Why would seeing these happy photos possibly make me upset? Shouldn't I be grateful for them? Grateful for a glimpse into the part of my life I was never told about?

She slides the photos back into the envelope. Her fingers gently graze my hand. "Do you miss your mom? "

I shake my head, sniffling. I bite my cheek, trying to stop myself from crying because I don't like Margo seeing me like this. It doesn't help, but somehow, I manage to find the words. "My mom loved me," I whisper. "She actually loved me."

"Daniel...?," Margo says, pulling me into a hug. She wraps her arms around me, and I cry on her shoulder.

All these years I grew up thinking I wasn't wanted by anyone, but that wasn't true. My mom loved me. She didn't make the right choices, but there was a part of her that wanted to.

She loved me.