Page 20 of Everything We Left Unsaid

The pain ignites my anger and I lose my composure. “No!” I shout back, getting in her face in a way I’ve never done before. “It’s your fault he’s dead, you crack whore!” I’m so lost in my sorrow and rage, I don’t see the final blow coming until her open palm connects with my cheek.

Before I can stop myself and consider the consequences of my actions, my closed fist crashes into her jaw. She stumbles and loses her footing before crashing into the coffee table. I don’t waste one second making sure she’s alright. Before she can come after me, I bolt, grabbing my brother from his room and running out the door.

My shoulders shake, my body wracked by violent sobs as I remember the day I learned how unwanted I really was. I never felt that way when my dad was alive. He doted on me and my brother, and my mother never let on that she was unhappy having children. She loved us. Or maybe she just put on a good show for my father because she knew if she didn’t, he would be disappointed in her.

I can never let my child feel the way I felt that day. If Jacob doesn’t want to be a part of this, then I won’t force his involvement. But I won’t let him make my child feel unwanted or unloved. I know how it feels to learn that the person who is supposed to love and protect you was willing to end your life before you even had a chance to live it. This baby will never know that feeling, even if it means I never speak to Jacob again.

Present day...

“I didn’t writethat,” he claims, tossing the paper back onto my bed, a look of disgust curling his lip.

“Yes, you did,” I counter, picking up the discarded letter. “Your signature is right here.” I point to the bottom of the page where his name is scribbled in black ink.

“That’s not my signature,” he declares, his nostrils flaring in anger.

I’ve got news for him. He’s not the only one who’s angry. I’m tired of his lies. I’m tired of him pretending like he’s done nothing wrong. I’m tired of him acting like I’m the bad guy for keeping Chloe from him, when he didn’t want her in the first place.

I fold the paper up and shove it in my pocket. Throwing open the drawer of my nightstand, I dig through its contents until I find what I’m looking for.

“Prove it,” I demand, brandishing a pen and a note pad. He’s going to show me his signature, but I won’t let him cheat. The letter is tucked away safe and sound, where he can’t see the writing and try to change how he signs his name.

His eyes darken and his jaw ticks, his teeth gritted in anger. “I don’t have to prove shit to you. That’s not my fucking signature,” he insists before turning his back on me and marching out of my bedroom. I follow him into the kitchen, unwilling to let him off the hook. Glancing around, I’m relieved to find the room empty. My grandmother must have sensed something was about to happen and took Chloe away.

“You owe me an explanation!” I counter. He whirls on me, his face full of rage, his eyes swimming with an emotion I can’t pinpoint. He looms over me, his breath coming in ragged spurts as he attempts to pull in air through flared nostrils. But I won’t back down. I need to know. I deserve to know. “If that’s not your signature, then prove it,” I command, holding up the means for him to provide the evidence. When he makes no move to take them, my emotions get the best of me. “Show me,” I plead, my voice cracking. Something in my voice breaks through to him and his features soften, if only infinitesimally.

He takes the pen and paper from my hand and slaps them down onto the kitchen table, the sharp sound startling me enough to jump. He scribbles something quickly on the paper before peeling it back off the table.

“Here!” he barks, shoving it into my hands. As soon as my eyes land on his writing, my blood runs cold.

“Again,” I demand. I need confirmation. The truth is becoming more and more elusive, the line blurring between reality and what I once believed.

He takes the paper from my hands again and repeats the action of signing his name. My arms wrap around my middle, cradling my quivering stomach as he defiantly holds the paper up for my inspection. A sob breaks loose as my throat clogs with emotion.

“Is that good enough for you?” he demands. I remain silent except for the quiet cries slipping past the hand now covering my mouth. “No?” he asks, his voice laced with disdain. He returns the paper to the table and writes his name again. “How about now?” He shows me the paper again, but I can barely make out the writing through my watery eyes. He flips the page over and writes his name several more times and I blink away the tears to see more clearly. They are all the same. Every single signature looks exactly alike.

Except for the one in the letter.

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