With that appointment out of the way, I grab a shower and clean clothes. Walking into my grandfather’s old room always makes my skin crawl as if an invisible layer of grime coats my body just by crossing the threshold.
The next part of my day will include a visit to the woman I never thought I’d see again.
Chapter 8
Tinley
“This is child abuse,” Alex mutters as he repositions himself, scooting further along the baseboard in the kitchen.
I scoff at his complaint, pointing to a spot he missed like a drill sergeant.
“Child services has more important things to worry about than a boy who can’t stay out of trouble being forced to help clean his home. But feel free to give them a call.”
He grumbles something under his breath, and I know I should chastise him for the few disrespectful words I manage to understand, but I’m picking my battles today.
He didn’t put up much of an argument when I woke him up at the same time he would normally get up for school, but the disdain started the second he saw the cleaning supplies on the kitchen table.
“Neither of us should be spending our off days doing this,” he continues to complain.
“You don’t have an off day. Suspension is supposed to be punishment, so get back to work, Cinderella.” I hand him back the bottle of cleaner now that it’s refilled. “Plus, you know Nanny is safer in a very clean home. Her immune system is nonexistent.”
I hate to use Mom’s illness as a weapon and guilt trip on my child, but nothing else seems to work around here lately.
“Speaking of—” He looks over his shoulder. “Where is she this morning?”
“Napping,” I answer because the truth—that she was too weak and tired to get out of bed this morning—would cause him pain. “So, keep your complaints to a minimum so she can rest.”
He rolls his eyes, a trait he picked up from me at a very early age, but he turns back to the baseboards, sprays them with more cleaner and keeps scrubbing.
Alex doesn’t look up from his work when there’s a knock on the front door, but the sound ratchets up my nerves like bad news is waiting on the other side. We have people in and out of the house most days of the week. Mom’s nurse and the minister from church both come and go regularly, but they never knock. If Mom is here alone, they don’t want her to have to overexert herself by using energy to wheel herself across the room to open the door.
That knock means my life is going to change. I know who it is before I even look through the peephole. I’m already a blubbering mess before I tug open the door because when my hand hits the doorknob, I can sense Alex standing up from his work in the kitchen.
“Please don’t,” I whisper the second I pull open the door. Tears pool on my lashes, and Ignacio focuses on them as his throat works on a swallow. “It’s not a good time.”
“Not a good time?” he hisses. “Really?”
“Please,” I beg again, even though I know the effort is wasted.
His face is somehow angry and handsome all at the same time. His dark brown eyes narrow, showcasing lashes most women would kill for.
“When?” he snaps. “When is a good time to talk about my child?”
“What?” That question comes from behind me, and the tears that were threatening roll in steady rivulets down my face.
Ignacio snaps his head in the direction of the question, making me realize that it was never his intention to show up here and wreak havoc on his son’s life.
“He’s here?” he hisses. “He’s supposed to be at school.”
“Suspended,” I manage on a sob.
“Mom?” Alex steps up beside me, and it isn’t lost on me that he’s already trembling and keeping a distance between the two of us. “You’re that man from my school.”
Ignacio’s throat works on another swallow, but he doesn’t say a word. He’s as unsure how to have this conversation as I am, but he isn’t the one who’s going to have to confess to a lifetime of sins.
“What did he say?” Alex prods. “What was he saying? What child?”
I look over at my precious boy who is nearly as tall as I am already, watching as the color drains from his face. Years of lies and betrayal, the realization that his mother has been deceiving him for years makes his lower lip tremble. When his eyes begin to shine, I know I’ve lost him. Whatever control I’ve managed to hold on to and convince myself I still have over this young man snaps in an instant.
“He’s my dad?” he snaps, keeping his eyes on mine as if he doesn’t want to miss the second I’m forced to choose between the charade or the truth.