23. Chapter 23

The white house looms large, even from my vantage point on the sidewalk across the street.

Lush green ferns hang in baskets along a front porch that disappears around both sides of the house.

A pretty little stone walkway runs from the three-car garage to the base of the brick stairs leading up.

Has a set of stairs ever seemed so tall? As I stand across the street, I count them out in my head.

One, two, three … There are only seven but there might as well be a thousand.

Around me, the streets of downtown Charleston bustle.

Pedestrians pass by, some stopping to give me odd looks while others move around me as if I'm just another Palmetto tree lining the sidewalk.

I don't pay them much mind.

I know I look like shit, but I can't find the energy to care.

After bouncing around through five different foster homes in six months, I've learned to travel light.

In addition to the clothes on my back, my small bookbag holds one extra pair of pants, a threadbare t-shirt, and underwear.

A handful of pictures and small nick-nacks, a toothbrush, a pack of wet wipes, and a bar of soap in a ziplock baggie take up the space in the front pocket.

Wrapped tightly within the folds of my spare pants is my laptop.

That was the extent of my worldly possessions.

Well … that and the letter.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the plain white envelope.

The paper inside is wrinkled and thinning from how many times I've taken it out to read it, but I don't need to take it out now.

I know it, word for word, by heart at this point.

Hi, baby.

I truly hope you never have to read this, but if you are, then it means I'm no longer here with you.

I know you must be angry with me, but I think somewhere, in the back of our minds, we both knew it was only a matter of time.

I hope that one day, you'll understand and be able to forgive me.

Please know that I didn't ever want to leave you behind.

Life has been so hard.

Harder than it should've been.

Much harder than it needed to be.

And you've grown up so much faster than you were meant to.

You had to shoulder the burden of a mother so broken by life that it made her too weak to love herself and find contentment in the life she'd been given, as opposed to the life she wished for.

I know none of this has been easy for you, but you're stronger than I ever was.

I remember the day you came into this world.

I was in such a dark place, scared and alone.

But when I finally held you in my arms, and you looked at me for the first time, stars lit up the perpetual night I'd been living in, and I wasn't so alone anymore.

From then on, any time life became too much, I'd look into your eyes, and I wasn't so afraid of the dark.

But I know, if you're reading this, that it still wasn't bright enough for me to find my way home.

The fault in that lies with me, not you.

The stars were always shining; I just couldn't keep sight of them.

I love you so much, baby.

You've always been the best part of me … and your father.

I know I never told you much about the man who helped create you, mostly because it hurt too much to think about the lifetime of memories we should've made together but didn't.

Instead, you and I made memories, and I'm hoping, now that I'm gone, he'll pick up where I left off, and the two of you will create memories of your own.

I've enclosed the information below with that hope.

Just remember, people come and go in life, but stars are constant.

They're always there, and as long as you keep sight of them, the darkness can't touch you.

Someday, long from now, I'll meet you in the sky, and we'll be together again.

All my love,

Mama

I've also memorized the name and address printed below my mother's signature.

My father's name is Martin Hawkins, and I've been standing outside his house for the last hour.

After Mama died, social services came and took custody of me.

The lady was nice but she looked tired and run down.

I guess that made two of us.

I'd only been given enough time to grab a handful of things before I had to leave.

Turned out we were behind on the rent—the landlord confiscated everything in the house that wasn't nailed down.

Sure, I could've scraped together enough from my siphoning software to pay him, but then I'd have to explain to him and the social worker where I'd gotten the money, knowing I couldn't do that.

So, in the end, he'd taken the majority of our possessions to sell in the hope of recouping his money.

I didn't protest.

The only thing I'd really wanted were the photographs anyway.

I'd found the letter when I was gathering up the pictures.

The envelope was addressed to me, and I recognized Mama's handwriting.

I couldn't bring myself to open it then.

Instead, I'd stuffed a change of clothes, the pictures, and a few other small things that reminded me of her into my bookbag and left.

Later, when I was at the center, waiting to be placed into my first foster home, I'd finally opened the letter.

My mother's beautiful script was stained with what looked like water droplets in several places, making it hard to read, but I'd managed.

I wondered if the wet spots on the paper were from where she was crying.

The thought made me cry, and even though I didn't think I had any tears left in me, I still couldn't stop the lump from forming in my throat at the idea.

The letter itself would've been confusing to anyone else, but after living with Mama for 14 years, I knew she likened my eyes to starlight.

Just like the fake diamond she'd been buried with.

Just like the real one that should've been in its place.

She'd never gotten that diamond or the life that she was promised.

She'd never gotten a lot of things.

I didn't hate my mother for what she'd done.

Maybe I should, but I didn't.

I hated him .

Standing across the street from the pretty white house I know belongs to my father, I imagine the entire structure going up in flames.

It would be so easy.

A little gasoline and the strike of a match.

Everything he loved would be gone in the blink of an eye, and he'd know exactly how I've felt for the last year.

Or better yet, it would be a bonus if he were inside the house while it burned. It would only be fair. I want him to hurt the way she hurt. The way I hurt. Despite the pretty words of her letter, the only memories I want to make with this man are the kind that'll haunt him for the rest of his life. I want to ruin him. But first, I want him to tell me why. Why he abandoned her, abandoned us. I want to look into the mirror image of my eyes and see regret there. Then I'll find a way to destroy whatever life he decided was better than the one he could've had with us. Only then will I be able to let go of the past.

As I force my feet into motion, I walk slowly, thinking about how I got here.

After finding the letter and learning who my father was, I'd told the social worker I had somewhere to go.

Granted, I had no intention of ever living with the man, but she didn't need to know that.

Unfortunately, I might as well have been talking to the wind.

My father wasn't listed on my birth certificate, and she didn't think the letter was sufficient enough evidence to upend someone's life by dropping a kid on their doorstep.

Instead, I'd been placed in a foster home with a woman that smoked too much and a man that touched too much.

When he started trying to come into my room at night, I'd been moved to a new home.

The second wasn't much better.

Neither was the third or fourth.

I'd split after only four days in my 5th and final foster home.

Officially classed as a runaway, the system all but threw my file in the trash.

The government didn't care where I was, only that they had one less case to manage.

It hadn't taken me long to track down my father.

He was famous after all.

Well, famous by Southern standards, I guess.

Turned out, Martin Hawkins was the mayor of Charleston, SC.

An upstanding citizen with a wife and two kids about the same age as me.

Rumor had it that he planned on running for governor in the next election.

Not if I could help it.

Finally reaching the first of the seven brick steps leading up to the porch, I take them two at a time.

Stepping forward, I quickly ring the bell before I have a chance to chicken out.

Raised voices come from just beyond the front door, and I can see a figure moving towards me through the stained glass window.

My body stiffens, and I brace myself for whatever's on the other side of that door.

When it finally opens, I'm greeted by an elegantly dressed woman holding a glass of red wine in one hand and a phone in the other .

She stares blankly in the general direction of my face before saying, "Whatever you're selling, hunny, we've already got two."

I don't miss her dilated eyes before she closes the door in my face.

If I'm not mistaken, she's drunk, and despite the sugary sweet endearment, her words leave a taste in my mouth not unlike that of artificially flavored banana candy.

I recognize her, of course, from pictures I found online.

Hello stepmother.

Ringing the bell again, I watch from outside as she stops on the other side of the glass before turning around and opening the door again.

This time, I don't allow her to cut me off before I can speak.

"I'm not selling anything.

I'm here to see Martin Hawkins,"

I say quickly.

Her face is now pinched, and even the illusion of southern hospitality can't hide her irritation this time.

Using the hand still holding the phone to lean on the doorframe, probably to keep herself upright, she says, "Darlin', don't you know it's supper time? We don't do business during supper.

That's family time.

Come back tomorrow."

"This isn't business, it's personal,"

I state in a voice that's gone hard as nails.

"And I could eat,"

I tack on.

The sarcasm in my voice can't disguise the insinuation.

I am family.

Blinking hard, she finally focuses on my face.

When her eyes meet mine, I watch them narrow slightly before coasting across the rest of my features.

Those hazy eyes turn to slits before she lets out a low laugh.

One that's completely devoid of humor.

Leaving the door open, she turns, effectively dismissing me.

As she walks across a large foyer, she yells rather calmly, "Martin, one of your bastards is on our doorstep."

Without a backward glance, she puts the phone back to her ear and resumes conversation, disappearing down a hallway .

I stand there on the front porch, wondering if I've slipped into an alternate universe.

Is this normal for her? What did she mean by one of his bastards? Has this happened before? Jesus Christ.

A picture of who my father really is is coming into sharper focus by the second.

Shaking my head, I take a step back and wait.

Within a minute or two, a tall man with broad shoulders and dark hair already peppered with grays steps into the doorway.

Looking me up and down from head to toe, he pushes the screen door open, closing the large interior door behind him as he steps out.

For the first time, I get a good look at my father.

Objectively speaking, I can see why my mother fell for him.

He's good-looking in a way that isn't pretentious, which is probably what's gotten him so far in his political career.

With his sleeves rolled up and the top collar button of his white dress shirt undone, he looks like a man of the people.

That is until he opens his mouth.

"What do you want, boy?"

he asks in a low tone.

The hostility in his voice is in direct contrast to his laid back appearance.

I stand there for a second, just staring at his face, waiting for him to actually look at me.

Waiting for some sign of recognition.

None comes.

In fact, he seems to be deliberately looking anywhere but at my face.

Finally opening my mouth, I ask, "Do you know who I am?"

"No, and I don't care.

Whatever story you're here peddling, I'm not buying it.

Get the hell off my porch before I call the police."

Red hot anger fills me and I have to lock my muscles into place to keep from lunging at him.

This piece of shit.

How did someone as sweet and caring as my mother fall in love with someone like him? Jaw clenching, I take a deep breath through my nose, reminding myself that if I get arrested, I'll end up back in the system.

As I keep my feet rooted to the spot, I glare at him, and he stares in the general direction of my left ear.

The longer we stand there, the angrier I get.

And finally I lose my temper, my next words burst from me with the force of a shotgun blast.

"Look at me!"

Bright blue eyes snap to mine, holding.

"Do.

You.

Know.

Who. I. Am?"

I demand again.

He stares into my eyes for another long moment before I watch his gaze flick to my hair, then my nose, chin, and jaw, all before coming back to meet my eyes again.

I can see the recognition there now.

When he speaks, however, it's in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

"No," he says.

Liar.

He knows exactly who I am.

Who my mother was.

I can see it in his eyes.

My eyes.

Realization cements itself into place and every question, every accusation, every need for explanation dries up on my tongue.

Any benefit of the doubt that I wanted to give this man for my mother's sake is gone.

He wasn't ever stuck in an impossible situation that kept him away from us, and he never intended to keep any of his promises to my mother.

She waited her entire life for him and he was here in this pretty house with his drunk wife having supper with the family he really wanted.

Disgust crawls up my throat like bile, and a heavy weight settles in my stomach.

Without another word, I turn and walk down the stairs, across the cobblestone walkway, and out onto the sidewalk.

I don't turn around or look back.

I'm sorry, mama.

I knew what she hoped would happen, but somehow, even before I came here, I knew that it was a pipe dream.

He doesn't regret his choices nor is he sorry for anything that happened after.

As I looked into those eyes, there was no remorse.

There was … nothing.

He recognized me, and he felt nothing.

Walking into an internet cafe, I remove my bookbag and sit at a corner table.

I pull out my laptop, boot it up, and connect to the cafe's WIFI.

As my fingers fly over the keys, all the anger and pent-up frustration drain away, leaving only purpose.

Detachment becomes my coping mechanism.

You wouldn't make mistakes if you didn't allow yourself to feel emotion.

Over the course of the next hour, I dig up as much information on Martin Hawkins as I can, soaking it all up like a sponge.

The more I learn, the more I come to realize … my father's a criminal.

A white collar criminal but a criminal nonetheless.

As I take all this information in, I'm reminded of that famous saying.

What is it? To get into the mind of a criminal, you have to become one? My finger hovers over the button that will begin transferring small amounts of cash and assets from several of his offshore accounts into one of mine.

My finger comes down, simultaneously clicking the key and sealing my fate.

Consider it done.