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He sucks on his hoop and weighs up how best to answer me, which makes me think he’s thinking up a plausible lie that’ll shut me up.
No such luck.
“I think we all get tattooed for a reason. Each piece has its own story and usually holds some significance for us to get it permanently inked on our skin. A forever reminder of why we got it in the first place.”
“Nope, no significance here,” he replies casually, but I don’t buy it. “You look disappointed.”
Of course I am because, deep down, I know he’s lying to me. But I don’t have time to answer him because Cynthia hobbles into the kitchen, ending our discussion.
“Good morning, you two,” she says with a strained smile.
Her condition has me quickly forgetting the tattoo issue, and I swiftly reach for a chair, pulling it out so she can sit.
“Thank you, Mia,” she says, hissing in pain as she lowers herself onto the seat.
“I’m gonna hit the shower,” Quinn says after a moment of silence.
Once he’s washed out his mug, he kisses my forehead lightly and leaves us alone, giving us some privacy.
I stare at Cynthia, and as I see her worn and tired body sag in exhaustion, the anger and hate I feel toward her slowly fade. She’s not the enemy, and in a way, she’s just as much a victim as I am.
The fact she left me with my dad and uncle has changed the story, as maybe, just maybe, she thought she was doing the right thing.
“I’m so sorry, Mia,” she whispers, disturbing my thoughts.
With a heavy sigh, I reply, “You need to tell me the truth. The fact that Phil is your brother…you owe me the truth.”
“You’re right. I left you because…” She pauses, her lower lip trembling. “I left you”—she looks at the floor—“to save your life.”
A tear spills from her red-rimmed eye.
“How? How does that make any sense?”
“Because your father was going to kill you if I took you with me,” she sobs. “I left you, Mia, because if I didn’t, he’d kill us all.”
Her revelation hits me like a sucker punch to the gut, and I clutch the countertop for support. “What do you mean?”
Cynthia wipes her teary eyes before she begins her tale. “I loved your father, I really did. But he never wanted kids, which was something he never told me. But I thought that would change when I got pregnant with you.”
I give her my full attention, not wanting to miss a moment of her story.
“Throughout the pregnancy, your father never changed his mind. He showed no interest and pretended I wasn’t pregnant. He just refused to accept he was going to be a father. If I had known how strongly he opposed being a parent, I never would have married him. He changed, Mia. He wasn’t the man I once knew.
“Halfway through my pregnancy, I converted the spare bedroom, which was Thomas’s study, into your nursery, and I spent hours in there making it perfect. I thought if I could show him how this wasn’t a curse but a blessing, he’d come around, but sadly, he didn’t.
“He simply ignored me, and when I asked him to come to my doctor’s appointments or shopping, he just acted as if neither of us existed. After a while, I just accepted his detachment, disillusioned by the fantasy that he would eventually come around.”
She takes a big breath before she continues. “One Friday evening, I was putting together the crib I purchased for you, and Thomas came home, smelling of cheap beer and even cheaper women. He found me in the study and looked around the freshly painted pink walls like he’d stepped into a dream. The look in his eyes scared me,” she says, shuddering at the memory.
“He demanded to know where all his things were, and then, everything just exploded. I questioned where he was because he was obviously with a woman, as the cheap lipstick mark on his collar was a dead giveaway. But he was enraged, and the more I pushed him, the worse he got.
“All he seemed to care about was where his things were. In a rage, I lied and said I had thrown them all away. They were in storage, but I was just so mad that that’s all he cared about.”
An ominous feeling begins building within me, and I know what she tells me next will break me.
“I began yelling at him, and my anger toward him came boiling to the surface. I told him that I couldn’t be with him if he wouldn’t accept you into our lives. He got so mad,” she whispers, wringing her hands.
“The look in his eyes was so cold, so detached, and I knew then that he would never accept being a father. I told him I would stay with my mom until I figured out what I wanted to do. But he didn’t take too kindly to that suggestion, and when I tried to leave, he stood in my way. I fought him, which was silly, but I was just so angry with him. I never thought he’d fight back.”
