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“It’s hard, asking for help,” Mama said. “I was so lucky to have Bibi.”
“I am too,” I said, smiling gently. “She’s…everything.”
“I’m assuming she knows about your situation?”
“Of course. I think she wants me to keep it.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“She wants to help,” I said slowly. “And I have the money Ronan gave me.”
Mama’s hand in mine tightened. “And…you have me. If you want.”
I glanced up quickly. “What?”
“I have a lot of work to do. Healing, I guess. But I’m your Mama.” She brushed my braids off my face. “I think it’s time I acted like it.”
Tears flooded my eyes. “Can I…hug you?”
“No,” she said, her own eyes shining. “I’m going to hug you.”
Mama pulled me into her embrace, and I sank in, reveling in her softness, the scent of her…different from Bibi but familiar, too.
“But I don’t know for sure if I’m keeping this baby,” I said when we pulled apart, wiping my eyes. “It’s still so scary and…daunting.”
But a vague vision of the future came to me, with my shop where it had been before it was vandalized. And there was a little person waiting for me at home while I worked to create a life for Ronan to come back to.
Maybe I can do this. Maybe…
“No matter what you choose,” Mama said, “I’m going to try to be better for you. I can’t promise I won’t make mistakes, but I’m going to try.”
I didn’t know what Mama trying might look like or if I could count on her, but when all is said and done, that’s all you can hope for. To trust and keep going.
On the flight back to California, my hands couldn’t leave my stomach alone, cradling a roundness that wasn’t there.
“You’re his too,” I whispered to the baby that wasn’t even a baby yet. Just a collection of cells—his and mine. But I knew without a doubt in my heart that Ronan would make an amazing father. That he’d love our baby with all that he had, fiercely, just like he did me.
And maybe I’d be a good mother, too.
I had a chance. My heart was wide open.
Chapter Thirty-Four
It happened fast.
One day, I was facing down seven more years of my sentence. The next, Forrest Perry was in the visitor’s center at San Quentin, telling me I was getting out.
“Frankie recanted,” he said, his eyes lit up behind his glasses. “He admitted it was Mitch who put him in the hospital.” He rummaged in his briefcase and pulled out a few documents, then held them up one at a time since I wasn’t allowed to touch them.
“Frankie’s affidavit…and this is the judge’s order for your immediate release and expungement of your record.” He folded his hands on the table. “Mikey Grimaldi has been sentenced to a year for obstruction of justice and filing a false police report, and I’ve already taken the liberty of filing for your restitution.”
“Wait…release?” I said dumbly. I hadn’t heard much after that. “I’m getting out?”
“Yes, and with some start-up cash, to boot. The State of California is going to give you one hundred and forty dollars for every day you’ve been wrongfully imprisoned. Your release is set for eight days from now, which—by my calculations—means you’re looking at roughly $145,000.”
I stared. “I’m getting out in eight days…?”
“Yes, indeed. I wish it were immediate, but there’s some paperwork. Isn’t there always?” He chuckled until he read my expression. “I’m sorry, Ronan. I know this is a lot to take in. But in eight days, you’ll be a free man and with a nice chunk of cash to get you back on your feet.”
