Youhave no idea who I am, but my name is Tabitha Clarke. I found a few lettersfrom you in my sister Samantha’s things and I thought I’d reach out to you.
Samantha. Myeyes stared at the name, unblinking and startled. I hadn’t even thought aboutSam in—fuck, well over a decade. But there were some things, other things, Icould never forget.
Fromwhat you wrote, it seems that my sister never replied to you, and I’m truly sorryfor that. Because while you were made to believe that she had an abortion, shedid in fact have the baby—a little boy. His name is Greyson, and he is nowfifteen years old. I thought you’d like to know.
Ihave to admit, I’m also writing for selfish reasons. You see, Sam was killed ina car accident two months ago. After losing both of my parents earlier thisyear, I have no other family, and therefore nobody else to help raise Greyson.Because you are apparently his biological father, I wanted to invite you to stepin. He’s going through a horrible time, between losing three members of hisfamily and being bullied at school, and I could really use the help.
Ido realize how odd and abrupt this invitation may seem. You are ultimately astranger to us and I have no idea if you are a good person. But your lettersfrom sixteen years ago seemed sincere and I’m taking it on good faith thatyou’re still that man.
I’veincluded my phone number. I’m hoping you’ll call.
-Tabitha
Whatthe fuck. Before I realized what was happening, my hand unclenchedthe letter on its own accord, like it was on fire, and it went drifting to thefloor at my feet. This woman, Tabitha, from some place called Hog Hill, NewYork was telling me that I had a kid. A son.
Ihave a fucking son.
Ihadn’t thought about Samantha Clarke in well over a decade. Fifteen years,apparently. But with those words, I remembered the phone call in which she toldme she was pregnant. I remembered it like it had happened yesterday. The sweatypalms, the dry throat, and the feeling that the world was falling apart aroundme. I was a kid myself, on the fast lane to the life I wanted, and becoming afather had never been part of the plan.
Ididn’t have to worry about it though, she’d said. She was getting an abortion,being only nineteen herself with zero prospects for the future. I told her Iwould respect her choice to do whatever she wanted and left it at that, whilethe overwhelming sense of relief coalesced with something else:guilt. Andthat guilt eventually manifested into an overpowering need to provide, and thatwas when I knew, Ididwant that kid.
Iwrote to her after she ignored my calls, but I never heard back. I assumedshe’d gotten the abortion and wanted to put the whole thing behind her, and so,I had left her alone.
“Whatthe fuck,” I uttered aloud, reaching down to pick the letter up again. “Sam isdead?”
Myeyes scanned the letter again. She’d died in a fucking car accident? I droppedthe piece of paper to the coffee table, thrust my fingers into my hair, and heldmy head in my hands. I had so many questions, so many things I wanted to know.Why the hell hadn’t she told me? Why had she done it all on her own? But above allelse, I wanted to know abouthim. Who was he? What does he look like?
“Ihave a fucking kid,” I mumbled, and immediately, I grabbed my phone.
3
tabby
“Mrs. Worthington, you really don’t need toworry about Sandy,” I pleaded with the old woman as she bustled her way back tothe chinchilla’s room.
Istill couldn’t believe the damn chinchilla had its own bedroom. This is obviouslywhat happens to old ladies who lose their husbands and don’t havegrandchildren.
Isthis my future?
“I’mjust going to have a peek at him, Tabitha,” she called back in a sing-song tonethat told me there would probably be kisses and cuddles involved in thatpeek.
Justthen, a couple walked through the front door of the old Victorian property.Their gaze immediately soared to the vaulted ceilings, grins overtaking theiryoung faces at the awe-inspiring dose of natural light that swept the room. Theywere the kind of people I kept an eye out for, not folks like the long-hairedand tattooed Prince of Grunge that walked in earlier. People like that wanderedin off the streets for the free coffee and doughnuts, butthiscouple?They had interest, and interest meant potential sale.
“Goodafternoon!” I approached with a beaming grin, holding out a manicured hand.“Thank yousomuch for stopping in. I’m Tabitha Clarke, agent and ownerat TC Real Estate.”
Theyoung man gripped my palm in his. “Sam,” he responded with a friendly smile andmy heart flinched at the name. He placed a hand at the small of his partner’sback. “This is my wife, Margo.”
“It’sa pleasure to meet you, Sam,” I slipped my hand from his and nodded toward thepretty blonde, “and Margo. Are you looking to buy?”
Shebobbed her head excitedly. “We just got back from our honeymoon in Belize, andwe’re looking for a house in the area.”
Perfect.Newlyweds. “Well,” I enthused, welcoming them into the home with a sweepof my arm, “this is the perfect place to begin your new life together. Thehomeowner actually told me that she and her late-husband—”
“Excuseme,” Sam interrupted with a grimace. “Did you say …late-husband?”
Fuck.
Moisteningmy lips, I nodded hastily. “Uh, yes. They had bought the house—”
