I pull up to the curb in front of the school with seconds to spare. Running around to the other side of the car, I open the door. They both slide slowly from the seat.
“Love you bunches,” I say, ruffling their hair. “Have a good day.”
“Bye, Aunt Sara,” Lucas says solemnly. Liam walks away silently, his head hanging down and his shoulders slumped.
The door attendant motions the boys through before offering me a sympathetic smile and a small wave. I send her a halfhearted wave in return, before walking around to the driver’s door and folding myself into the seat.
Since school is basically ready to start, there are no cars waiting behind me. Even though I’m running late, I take a minute to check my phone. There are three new alerts that I didn’t hear come through earlier this morning.
They’re all for payments that I already scheduled, but for some reason the bank didn’t post them. This isn’t good. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up drowning in debt and then I might lose the boys.
I refuse to let them end up in foster care. That isn’t what my sister would have wanted for them. Although, why she thought I was the best choice to raise her babies, I’ll never understand. I can barely keep my own head above water.
My heart sinks as I steer the car into the street and head in the direction of the diner. It’s only a half a dozen blocks away, and with no traffic, the drive is quick. It’s not fast enough, however, to keep worry from filling every corner of my already jumbled mind.
By the time I pull into the parking lot, it feels as if the world is tumbling down around me and I’m helpless to hold it up. I don’t know how I’m going to do this.
I don’t know how to be Lucas and Liam’s mom, and their aunt, taking care of all of us on top of working. It’s too overwhelming. Tears spring hot and fiery behind my closed lids, and I press my palms against my eyes.
As I peel myself from the car, I can see the manager watching me from behind the bank of windows along the side of the building. When I meet his gaze, he holds up his wrist and taps the watch that’s wrapped there.
With a heavy sigh, I trudge through the doors. It’s going to be another tough day.
Two
Lucille
I ’m sitting in the family lawyer’s
office in a state of complete and utter shock. Unable to move, unable to speak, as numbness creeps across my skin, enveloping my mind, which refuses to process the words that are being spoken to me.
Could I possibly have heard him correctly? My lawyer gets up from the long mahogany table where half a dozen people, the majority of them in suit and tie, sit. His chair screeches loudly against the gleaming cedar floor.
When he returns, he sets a plastic cup filled with water in front of me. My hand automatically moves forward and my fingers wrap around the smooth plastic before lifting it to my lips. I drink greedily, the icy liquid flooding my throat. But in my stunned state, I don’t really taste it.
When I got the phone call a few days ago to meet at the family law firm this morning, I was certain it would be just a formality. Perhaps removing my name from some paperwork.
Instead, I arrive only to find that my father has died and no one bothered to tell me. To top it off, he’s left everything to me. I don’t understand.
I haven’t spoken to my father in years. Not since he disowned me when I was twenty for the simple fact that I was gay…am gay. It wasn’t a phase, as I’m sure he hoped.
There’s a letter in the will and the lawyer picks it up now. He slides it across the table for me to read for myself, as if the contents are too fragile to be heard by the entire room.
I stare down at the sheet of paper. The inky contents are blurred by the unshed tears that pool along my lashes. I blink them away, reaching for a tissue to blot them with before they have a chance to trail down my cheeks.
My father’s handwriting is unmistakable. The precise penmanship with its sharp angles and smooth strokes. It hasn’t changed in all these years.
I let my eyes drift over his words, and my heart cracks in my chest. He should have spoken them to me, instead of leaving them for me to read like this. In a room full of crotchety old men who hold no sympathy or compassion for my loss.
When I was eighteen, my father found me in bed with another girl. I’ll never forget the look of disgust on his face. The look of disappointment. He was horrified to have a daughter of that…nature.
He was more concerned with appearances. How would it look to other people, to those of our status, our circle? What would they say about our family?
We struggled for two long years to find some kind of common ground, before he finally had enough. I was not going to change, and he was not willing to accept me for who I was.
It appears that, perhaps, he might actually have been sorry for kicking me out and refusing to be a part of my life, refusing to allow me to be a part of his. I don’t know how to feel about that.
The fact that he’s left everything to me, it’s disorienting, to say the least. I’d rather have back the years that we lost. Now, I never will.