Page 53 of Passing Ships

He huffs out a frustrated breath.

“It’s true. Not everyone gets Sebby and Sabel Hollister or James and Milly Harraway. Some of us just have egg and sperm donors.”

“Okay,” he concedes. “What happened to them?”

Lennon

I can see her hesitation, but she grabs the cushion from the back of the couch, shoves it behind her head, and begins sharing.

“My dad took off when I was two. Decided that family life just wasn’t for him. My mother was a drunk, who blamed me for running him off,” she explains.

How the hell could a father just leave his baby girl?

“Why did she blame you?”

She shrugs.

“She said I was the only reason he split without her. If it wasn’t for my crying and my constant need for her attention, he’d have taken her with him.”

“But you were a toddler,” I state in disbelief.

“Apparently a whiny one. I don’t remember a lot from that time, but she’d go on benders and disappear for days.”

“Disappear? She’d leave you alone?” I ask her to clarify.

“Yeah, she’d lock me in our apartment and tell me to watch the television until she came home.”

What the fuck?

“For days,” I snap.

“Yes. The longest was six days. That’s when the neighbors heard me crying through the walls and called the cops.”

“How old were you?”

“Five,” she replies, softly. “God, I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even Avie.”

I imagine a little blonde girl with big blue eyes, alone and scared, and probably starving, and my blood boils.

“Don’t look at me like that, Sailor. I’m not some damaged bird who never got over not being loved by her parents. I had plenty of love,” she says.

“From whom?”

“My grandmother. She was able to get an emergency custody order after that, with Mom eventually signing over full custody, and she smothered me with love. Mom would breeze in and out of our lives, but Grandma was a constant in mine.”

“Where’s your mother now?” I ask.

“Dead. She had COPD, and her body was so run down from years of alcohol abuse that when COVID-19 hit, she didn’t stand a chance.”

“And your grandmother?”

“She’s in a very nice, very expensive memory care facility. She suffers from advanced dementia and it isn’t safe for her to live independently. I would have her at home with me, but she insisted that when the time came, she wanted to go into a facility. She even hand-picked it herself. It’s one of the reasons I’ve never left Atlanta. She might not know who I am anymore, but she enjoys the visits from the nice girl who comes to share a chunky peanut butter and honey sandwich with her on Sunday afternoons.”

“Ahh, the infamous peanut butter and honey sandwiches,” I mutter.

She smiles. “Yeah, that was our thing. When I was little, whenever I got upset over anything, she’d bake a loaf of homemade sourdough bread and then make us a couple of peanut butter and honey sandwiches. We’d sit and talk about whatever it was. There wasn’t anything a glass of cold milk and that sandwich couldn’t fix. So, now, I make them for her. Sometimes, when she takes a bite, she even remembers who I am … for a fleeting moment.”

“What about your dad? Ever hear from him?” I ask.

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