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“I think she lives close to Williamsport, but I’m having trouble finding much information on her.” I frown because aside from her name, Melinda Blake, I can’t find anything else about her.
“Her artistry is perfect for my gallery,” I say with confidence although I don’t even know her full story yet.
“And the social worker where I volunteer at has these paintings from her grandmother …” I peter off. I hadn’t meant to bring up my volunteering in this conversation.
“Where are you volunteering?” my mom inquires. The question is innocent enough, but I can’t give her an honest answer.
“Um, just a local place I found.”
A wrinkle appears in her forehead. “You could come work with your Aunt Kay and me,” she offers. My mom does a lot of volunteering with the community center my aunt, Kayla, started with her sisters-in-law.
Most of my volunteer work, however, is specific to women who’ve been sexually assaulted. I can’t tell my mom that.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, again looking down at the table.
I can’t help but recall back to the day I found out the truth about my birth father. My grandmother was the one who told me. She was in her final weeks of life and thought I should know.
The work I do as a volunteer is my attempt to restore what was broken inside of me. At least, in part.
It’s also my payback. Ever since I’ve found out the truth, I’ve felt like I owed a debt for merely existing. Though I know the reality is, I’ll never be able to pay back what was stolen from her or make up for the sacrifices she made to have me.
Some small part of me likes to think the work I’m doing now is making an effort.
“Avery was so happy you two came to see her show,” my mother tells me, referring to Avery’s show the previous weekend.
As I promised her that night, over the phone, I was front and center for my little sister’s show.
“She sang so beautifully.”
“I know,” my mom agrees. “Damon had tears in his eyes,” she confesses. “Don’t tell him I said this, but he also has tears in his eyes when he watches Damian’s games.”
“Really?” I let out a small laugh.
Nodding, she waves her hand. “Your dad likes to pretend he’s tough, but he has a soft spot for all three of you.” She shakes her head.
“Four,” I correct.
Our eyes meet, and a sweet smile covers her face.
“Yeah,” she admits.
“No one was going to invite me for tacos?” a deep voice interrupts us.
“Speak of the devil,” my mom says, grinning up at my dad.
“Speak my name and I shall appear,” he says proudly. “I stopped by your office to surprise you for an early dinner, but you weren’t there. I checked my phone to see you were here. Hey, baby girl.” He leans over to hug me after he does the same to my mom.
“You really do not have a tracker on your phone, do you?” I ask.
Him and my mom exchange a look. Then he looks to me like I’m the crazy one. “Of course I do. I need to make sure she’s safe.”
My mom rolls her eyes.
“If this is a girls’ night out, I can meet you at home, babe.”
“No, stay,” I insist.
“Are you sure?”
