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“Macayla,” I whispered, cupping her chin and grazing her lip with my thumb. “Did you want to give him up?”
Her head dipped as tears streamed down her cheeks. “I wanted what was best for Jackson. I had no way of caring for him. Not without his help. And he said Jackson would be going to a loving family that would give him everything I couldn’t.”
“Those are your father’s words, baby.”
She sighed, and a strand of hair escaped her messy knot to fall in front of her face. This time I didn’t stop myself, and my fingertips lightly grazed her cheek as I tucked the strand behind her ear.
“No.” She lifted her head and her eyes met mine. “I didn’t want to give him up, Vic.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “They let me name him when I held him.” She choked back a sob. “And then my dad took him away. He promised… I never should’ve trusted him.”
The rage simmering inside me boiled over, and I wanted to fuckin’ hit something. Jesus. I didn’t know the laws surrounding underage parents, but I had a feeling that whatever he’d done, it couldn’t have been legal.
She shuddered, and I put my hands on her hips to keep her steady. “I should’ve fought harder, Vic. I should’ve done something more. I didn’t…. God, I didn’t know. It’s my fault he suffered. It’s my fault.”
Jesus. “Babe. Look at me.” She didn’t. “Babe.” She still didn’t. I softened my voice and crooked my finger under her chin, raising her face. “It’s not your fault.”
“Maybe if I—”
I scowled. “It’s not your fuckin’ fault. Even if it had been your choice to give him up, it wasn’t your fault what those people did to him.”
“He was supposed to be adopted. He was supposed to go to a loving home. My dad promised. He promised me.” She closed her eyes, and I saw her lips moving as if she was counting. She opened them again. “He told me I had to give up going to music school, and that I’d study finance instead. When I graduated, I’d work for him, and then in four years…” I stiffened. Fuck, don’t say it, baby. “… if I did everything he said, he’d tell me where Jackson went and I could check on him, make sure he was happy. That’s all I wanted. To be sure he was loved like my mom loved me, Vic.” She stopped, her head rising and her eyes meeting mine. “I did everything he said, but when I asked him, he refused to tell me. You know what he said?” Her eyes hardened. “He said he thought I’d have forgotten by then. Forgotten, Vic. How do you ever forget your child?”
Fuck. I’d kill the bastard. Her father was a selfish piece of shit who didn’t want anyone to know his seventeen-year-old daughter got pregnant. Who made her hide it in shame, even from her brother. Who refused to tell her where her son went.
She swallowed. “I begged him. I begged him to tell me. I even threatened to tell Ethan everything, but he said if I did that, he’d make sure Jackson disappeared forever.” She touched the scar above her lip with her tongue. “I guess now I know why he refused to tell me: it was because he didn’t know where Jackson went. There was never a loving home for him.”
“When did you find him, baby?”
“Seven months ago. When my dad refused to tell me anything, I cut myself off from him and Ethan. I was afraid Ethan might tell him, or that he’d somehow find out I was searching for Jackson. It took two years to find him. No one would tell me anything, so I hired someone to help, and found out he was never adopted because he had a congenital heart defect when he was born. He had to go through two surgeries by the time he was one, and then ended up in the foster system.”
Fuckin’ Christ. “Is he good now?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
Why the hell did her father care whether she saw her kid or not? I shouldn’t need to ask that question because I had a messed-up, abusive, piece-of-shit father who used his kids to steal for him. But why the secrecy? Why would he care if she searched for him?
I eased her over to the kitchen and urged her to sit on a stool before she fell down. Then I grabbed a glass out of the cupboard, filled it with water, and set it in front of her. “Drink it.”
She picked up the glass, and her hand shook so bad some of the water spilled over the rim. She sipped, then set it down again. I had a hell of a lot of questions, like where the hell was Jackson’s father? Who was the father? He’d likely been seventeen, too, but old enough to take responsibility. And what did her brother know now? Was that why he hadn’t met Jackson yet? Did she not want him to?
But now wasn’t the time to drill her with questions when she was trembling, and with the kid in the next room.
“I need your number.”
“My number?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Okay.” She pulled out her cell, tapped on the screen, and then handed it to me.
I quickly added her number, and then sent her a text so she had mine.
“Mr. Gate,” Jackson called from his bedroom. “Are you coming? Waffles is drinking from the bottle. I think he was really thirsty. Come see.”
I handed her cell back and then headed for the kid’s bedroom.
“Vic,” she called.
I stopped in the doorway.
