Page 14 of Stolen Dreams

Had I not missed close to six years of Tucker’s life, everything would be different. Tucker would be a normal nine-year-old kid. He’d get upset over trivial things like not getting his way. He’d have a sense of belonging with peers and family. The hurt and confusion he wears daily would be nonexistent.

Had we spent those monumental years together, we would’ve grown into daily routines and schedules with ease instead of fighting the current at every turn. Love would highlight his life instead of abandonment. Jokes and laughter would color his world.

In the past week, since he met Oliver Moss—his current musician idol—at the Memorial Day Festival, Tucker has been better. Happier. But he’s still a scared little boy. He still fears the future. Questions if he will ever fit in.

And it breaks my damn heart.

I want a simple, easy life for Tucker. Daily smiles and shrill laughter as I tickle the spot on his ribs beneath his armpit. Grand adventures he brags to his friends about and fun cooking lessons he can’t get enough of. Stability that offers him the chance to grow into who he is meant to be without concern over whatcouldhappen. Above all, I want him surrounded by love.

It isn’t a monumental wish, but achieving it is harrowing.

“Promise I’ll talk with André in the morning.”

Mom pats my shoulder. “Good. Now take our boy home and tuck him into his own bed.” Mom leans in and kisses my cheek. “Night, sweetheart.”

“Night, Mom.”

I collect Tucker’s belongings and then scoop him up from the bed in his room at my parents’ house. He stirs a moment, curls into me, and falls right back asleep. I buckle him in the car, deposit his backpack near his feet, hop in the car, and drive to our house on the property.

As I tuck him into his bed, I study his face, which looks so much like my own at his age. Visually trace his little brows and wild, curly hair he inherited from his mother. But it’s the softness in his expression while he sleeps that shreds my heart to pieces. The softness he hides behind a steel mask of hurt while awake.

It kills me I missed so many years of his life.

Brianna moved around often enough I had trouble tracking them down. Just as the investigator received a tip on their whereabouts, Brianna packed their bags and left the area. Not sure if she knew I was on to her or her restless, vagabond soul needed to move.

Brianna never wanted to be a mother but stole our son and used him as a financial pawn. She robbed me of time and memories—precious commodities I’ll never get back. She ripped Tucker away from a loving parent for years, all for selfish, nefarious reasons.

What she did is repulsive and unforgivable.

I only hope Tucker finds peace and moves forward.

Tiptoeing out of his room, I close the door except for a few inches. Move down the hall to my room and go about my bedtime routine.

When my head hits the pillow, my mind zips into overdrive. Mom’s words play on repeat as my mind tries to solve the issue before sleep. After what feels like hours, exhaustion wins out. As I drift off, I think of how everything I do is for the little boy inthe room across the hall. It also dawns on me to ask him whatheneeds rather than assume.

THREE

RAY

Incessant chimes followedby soft buzzing stir me awake, and I groan into my pillow. Eyes heavy with sleep, I blindly reach in the general direction of my current archnemesis and slap anything and everything on the nightstand until the alarm quiets.

Five more minutes.

When the alarm blares again, I curl the pillow around my head and pin it to my ears for one, two, three jolted heartbeats. On a heavy sigh, I release the pillow, shut off the alarm, throw back the covers, and force myself upright.

Last night’s conversation with Mom weaseled its way into my dreams. Woke me up a time or two. Stole a decent chunk of the fleeting sleep I get on film nights. Still has my mind whirling with questions, possible solutions, and how this will impact my role at the restaurant.

Swinging my legs off the bed, I drop my elbows to my knees, head in my hands. “There has to be a way,” I grumble into my palms before combing my fingers through my hair.

Tons of single parents work forty to fifty hours a week and still have time with their child. Granted, most of them probablywork while school is in session and only miss an hour or two together after school ends.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of working anything other than nights. Aside from private parties and events, Calhoun’s Bistro only serves dinner. Early afternoon to midnight is a typical workday, and I don’t see any way around it.

As Mom suggested, I’ll talk with Chef Beaulieu later. I may not see a feasible resolution, but André’s mind is always firing off new ideas.

Rising from the bed, I cross the room for the dresser, grab a pair of sweats, and tug them on. After my morning bathroom routine, I pad across the hall to Tucker’s room.

“T-Man,” I call out softly from the door. He squirms but doesn’t wake fully. I step into the room and go to the foot of his bed. “Tucker. Time to get up, bud.”

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