Page 17 of Anchor Point

She rose and went to her book bag, rummaging around inside. I tried to sneak a look, but she held whatever it was behind her as she returned, curling a knee into the couch and sitting facing me.

Then she handed me a picture from a lifetime ago. I took the four by six with a shaky hand, staring at an old image of a younger Mac, his arms around a younger me. The edges of the photo were dinged, one corner slightly bent.

“This was one of the guys in the calendar. I mean, he’s old now, but it’s still him. With you.”

I was unable to respond. All I could do was trace a finger over the younger version of myself. Looking at the picture of the two of us, I was transported back in time to a perfect day on a tropical beach. I was snuggled up to him, my back to his chest, his arms wrapped around me. We were smiling. Happy. And if I was honest, maybe even a little bit in love after a week of spending every minute of every day together.

“Who is this, Mom?”

I finally found my voice. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it in the attic when I was hiding out from Tim and his bad moods one day.” Toward the end of our marriage, she’d done that often. “There was an old trunk with letters and journals. When I moved one of the journals, this photo fell out.”

I blanched as the underlying meaning of what she was telling me sank in. Rosie had had this all along. And the journals…

She stood and returned to the backpack, bringing a familiar leather-bound notebook back with her. “There are letters in here. But I didn’t read any of them.”

I met her gaze to check for honesty. I needed to know she wasn’t playing games with me. Those letters had been my only outlet as I grieved the loss of what might have been, the mourning heart of a young woman. Not something I wanted my teenage daughter to read.

“Honest, Mom.” Her eyes were warm with understanding as she lifted the book to me.

I took it with trembling fingers. Why was it that I could be such a badass, working in a badass field, and yet my hands shook as I faced the reality that my baby-child had managed to find her father, when I had been unable to do so for so many years?

She perched on the edge of the couch, watching me.

“Mom. This is my dad, isn’t it.” Her voice sounded gentle and wise for a fourteen-year-old girl. And I hated that she had this lot in life, having to find her biological father, especially after the way the man who’d raised her had treated her.

Clearing my throat, I dropped my hand to my lap and forced my eyes to hers. “Sweetheart, I… do you remember when you were eight years old, and you asked me and Tim why you didn’t look like either me or him?”

“I mean, yeah. I know Tim isn’t my real dad. Plus, after he literally yelled it to the world when I busted him with that cheating hoe?—”

“Rosie—”

“—anyway. Yeah. I knew he was my stepdad. That’s not what I’m asking. Come on, Mom, you’re smarter than this. Stop avoiding me. I’m asking you if the man in this photo is my dad. Because I think it is.”

A thought rang loud in my head. I was proud of her for standing up for herself, even if I was the one in the hot seat. Followed quickly by how disappointed in me she must be. But based on when she’d had that fight with Tim and the time that she’d had those journals…

“When did you find this picture?”

She swallowed thickly. “A while ago.”

“Before Tim and I split?”

She nodded, and my insides churned. My daughter had been raised in the internet era and had online sleuthing skills I couldn’t fathom. I never started a social media account for myself, but I’d let her start her own monitored accounts a few years ago. Now I had to admit to myself that I’d been lax in the monitoring.

“So, you knew, and somehow you found him online. And then you found out about the job, and you told me. All in an elaborate effort to come here and meet some random old boyfriend of mine in hopes he’d be your real dad?”

“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds bad.” She slumped back on the couch, crossing her arms over her chest. “I wasn’t trying to cause trouble, Mom. I didn’t do anything wrong.” Her normal teenage petulance made an appearance. This was good, familiar.

Still, she deserved the truth.

I ran a thumb over the book again, unable to find the words to say. Finally, after tense moments of silence, I replied, “I wasn’t trying to hide him, sweetheart. I just didn’t know where he was or how to find him. And then so much time went by, and I didn’t know if I should or if you’d hate me. If he’d hate me.” There was so much to unpack, so many half-truths and so much regret.

She perked up. “You met him, didn’t you? He works for you?”

I nodded, my gaze drawn to that photo and the memory it represented.

“Did he recognize you?” The hope in her voice almost crushed me. “Does he know about me?”

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