Page 22 of Worth of Waste

Lydia cleared her throat and put the book she had been reading aside. “We’re always going to be here, Karen. No matter what. If you have something you want to talk to us about, we’ll always listen.”

“I know.”

“Do you have something you want to talk about?”

“Not particularly.”

She did have a lot she wanted to talk about, but she just wasn’t sure she should share. She fully believed her mother would be the shoulder to cry on or that supportive hand that held her up if she needed her to be.

Still, she had made a promise to herself.

Dino was not on the table during this visit.

She would not talk about Junior’s father at all.

Karen didn’t think it would be fair to Dino to out their history to her parents when she hadn’t even given him the chance yet to clear it up to her.

Six more months, she told herself.

Karen had hoped Dino’s sentence would be reduced, but it seemed like that wasn’t going to be the case. She didn’t know if it was because of who he was or the things he was affiliated with, but she’d been following along court documents and had occasionally called his lawyer’s office for an update over the last couple of months.

Nothing had changed.

His release date was the same as it had always been.

“I thought I might be able to move on,” Karen said before she could stop herself, “if I gave myself enough time and space.”

Her mother glanced over at her, taking in those words for a long while before she finally responded with, “From Junior’s father?”

Karen nodded quickly. “I was wrong, though. I keep going back in his direction in one way or another.”

Checking the news for anything about the Chicago mob.

Calling his lawyer.

Reading any new court filings for his case.

Driving past his businesses.

Karen could pretend all she wanted that she was doing fine, that she didn’t need Dino to be happy. And shit, maybe she didn’t need him at all.

She was raising Junior alone as it were.

She was supporting herself.

She was just fine.

But she could be better.

She could be happier.

“I just don’t know who he is,” Karen said so softly her mother couldn’t hear.

And sadly, that was still truer than she wanted to admit.

She’d read his letter over and over again. She kept the papers in her bedside table to pull them out and read them whenever she felt the urge, which was far more often than anyone could possibly know. He’d shown his heart in those words, his heart, past, and his pain, but reading it was not the same as hearing him say it.

Karen needed to hear it.