have quieted. I make my way toward the woman who might need to see a doctor for making up such a story to scare me. Perhaps she wants money. I will give her all of mine to take the baby away.
As I think it, another pain hits my chest.
If it is mine… do I want it to go away?
I reach the living room and pull to a stop. The girl is swaying slowly, hips swishing back and forth. Her back is to me, but as she moves, I see the blue and white blanket swish with the rhythm of her body.
It is quiet now, which is good.
“Who are you?” I don’t like calling her the woman. I’ve wondered her name for months since she started appearing in that doorway so close to mine.
She turns to me and in her arms is the baby. She’s holding a bottle and the baby is drinking. Quiet little sounds come from it and she grins down at the baby in her arms before tilting her head at me.
“What?”
“You. What is your name?”
“Paisley. Are you Mikah?”
She must want money if she knows my name. Perhaps she’s a fan. A puck bunny—that’s what my teammates call the girls who follow players and only want one thing from them.
“How did you know?” I wish she wasn’t so pretty. Sometimes it hurts to talk when all I want to do is look at her.
She points to an envelope on the table. The note.
“It’s on the outside. I didn’t know if it was your name or the baby’s, so I took a guess. Are you… are you okay?”
“A stranger shows up at my door with a baby in her arms, saying it’s mine. How okay am I supposed to be?” I wander to the table while I ask. I’m surprised by her gentle laugh.
“I suppose this isn’t your typical Friday night.”
She is funny. If I didn’t think I might throw up, I might laugh. No. This is not my typical Friday night. Mine are for resting. Not life-changing drama.
I say nothing and grab the envelope. I stare at it for a moment. Perhaps if I do not open it, I can pretend this didn’t happen. My fingers shake as I tear it open.
The envelope is larger than normal and thick and I’m careful as I pull out several folded papers.
The top one is the most important though as I instantly see my name, written in scrolling black ink.
* * *
Mikah,
His name is Angelo.
* * *
Emotion punches me in the chest. Angelo. I turn, see the woman. No, I see Paisley still rocking back and forth. Her gaze is on me, hand on the bottle still in the baby’s mouth. No, Angelo’s mouth.
A boy. I might have a son. My jaw tightens and I turn back to the letter that is now burning my fingertips.
* * *
He is yours. I promise, even though I’m sure you won’t believe me. I’ve done the best I can. I’m sorry. I can’t keep him. I thought I could, and I tried. I can’t do this. So Angelo is yours. All yours.
I found out I was pregnant in December and I debated contacting you and then I wondered how much you’d hate me, or if you’d want to do the “right” thing and make us a family. And I didn’t want either. We had a weekend, and I enjoyed it, but the family life… I’m sorry, but that isn’t what I want. So I tried to take care of him on my own but I don’t think I’m cut out to be a mom.
I’m easy to find, but as painful as this is to say, and how horrible of a woman, a mother this makes me, I don’t want him back.
I have included his birth certificate and social security card. If you need to contact me, my name is on his certificate.
Angela
* * *
Angela. A hockey puck lodges in my throat and the paper in my hand crumples. She knew. She never said. She didn’t come to me. Not even for money.
I ball the paper in my fist and as I do, I see the paper beneath it.
Birth Certificate. It looks legal even though my name is not on it and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Does it give me hope that she’s lying? Or does it piss me off that she didn’t even allow him to claim me in name?
Angelo Martin.
If he’s mine, it should be Lutzgo.
Another swell of emotion