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But now I’m overthinking that maybe there’s more to it. This gestational diabetes shit makes absolutely no sense to me. My woman eats healthy, exercises to excess, rarely indulges in anything, has no family history of diabetes or gestational diabetes—she’s the poster child for ‘do your body good.’
Something doesn’t sit right about this.
“Is something wrong with the food, hubby?” Josephine asks, concern knitting her thin brows together. “I’m sorry if there is. I couldn’t try it to see if everything was good.”
I swallow my food, smile, and wink at her. “It’s perfect. I just got a lot of shit going on in my head that I’m trying to sort out.”
“Is it about Esteban? Do you want to talk about it?”
Esteban wasn’t the focus of my thoughts before she mentioned his name, but the fucker is always on my mind.
“It might be a good idea to talk with Brandon about what you discovered in yourpadre’sjournal,” Josephine continues, reading me wrong, or right depending on how you look at the situation.
I agree I need to work through my rage, but investigating the daddy theory with my counselor is not high on my to-do list. He’s not my dad.
End. Of. Story.
When it comes to Esteban, I couldn’t give two-shits if he’s my sperm donor. Did it bother me when I found out? Fuck yeah, it did. But after talking to Josephine about it and knowing she’s with me regardless of if it’s true or not, I’m in a much better headspace.
That being said, I do have other feelings centered on the journal entries that I need to work through. I’m gutted over what happened to mymadre. Abducted, tortured, raped, possibly impregnated. The hell she endured while in captivity was terrible enough, but then come to find out your pregnant, and it may be your rapist’s child… Can’t help but wonder what she saw in me when she looked at me.
The same goes for my padre. The turmoil he must have been going through trying to find my madre had to be crippling. I can’t even imagine. Finally, save her only to find she was used and abused by a deviant bastard. And the final blow being the child she carries might not be his.
Did they love me? Did they even want me?
I know the journal says they did. Yet, I keep getting hung up on it. Would I be worth loving if I was Esteban’s son?
The man is vile, cruel, a tyrant—and his blood may run through my veins.
It’s why I shook like a leaf when I showed her the journal, why I begged her to not leave me before reading, because who could love the child of a monster? A child who could have been like him.
I was so wrong about Josephine being disgusted if she knew. She tossed that theory aside like it was nothing because to her, it was nothing. Didn’t change how she looked at me, how she loved me, or how she connected with me. Josephine made her stance loud and clear—she was with me, always.
Josephine chews on her bottom lip, waiting for me to respond.
There’s enough we need to worry about, but this shouldn’t be one of them. She needs to know that I’m taking my mental health seriously.
I take her hand in mine and coax her to look at me. “My issue with Esteban is what he did to my parents, and ultimately, what impact it had on my life. If he is my father, it’s another knife twist, but it doesn’t have to define me. You made that clear the other night. I owe everything I am to myabuela, the Navy, my crew, and you. Esteban hasn’t done anything to shape me into the man I am today—other than the deep-seated anger I have toward him.”
My hand digs in the pocket of my sweatpants and pulls out my cell. I scroll to the text messages before handing her my cell.
“What am I looking at?”
“The text conversation I’ve been having with Brandon setting up my next appointment. I sent these to him the day I finished the journal, the day after we discovering Esteban’s old villa. I knew I needed to hash out my thoughts. So, I went ahead and scheduled a session for his first availability after the holiday season.”
Josephine looks at me in surprise. “You did this? You felt the need to reach out for help without being prompted.”
“Yeah, I did because I need to figure out a way to channel my anger usefully. I don’t want it anymore. If it puts your mind at ease, I’ll discuss my possible paternity, but I’m telling you, it’s not an issue. Esteban imprisoning and raping mymadrethat may have resulted in my conception is the fucking issue. Wondering how they could possibly have wanted or loved me if I was Esteban's child. The resentment building from that is more problematic than who my daddy is. But I’m willing to work through it with you, my brothers, and counseling. I don’t want you worrying about this,” I say.
“Maceo, there shouldn’t be any doubt that they loved and wanted you,” she murmurs, squeezing my hands. “And you can’t ask me to not worry about you. That’s impossible.”
“Well, my parentage isn’t something to worry about. If he’s my father, it makes no difference. He wasn’t my dad. Cruz was my dad.”
Josephine wipes a tear away from her eye and smiles. “Can I say I’m so fucking proud of you for stepping up?”
“Oh, Pixie.” I pull her chair closer to me, wrapping my arms around her and burying my face in her hair. “I’m not fucking around with this. It’s important for you and the boys, and especially for me, to heal and move forward.”
With her cheeks wet with tears, she takes my face in her hands and kisses me. “Thank you.”
