Page 76 of Ashes of Saints

“I don’t know how long I can keep this place. If I don’t get access to her funds, I will have to move out...I don’t really know how these things work.”

I blush with embarrassment.

“If you need a good lawyer, let me know,” Parker replies with little expression.

I guess he wasn’t expecting a fashion retailer merchandiser to be rolling in cash.

“Thanks,” I reply, knowing I can’t afford a good lawyer but grateful he didn’t seem to care.

I was hoping that moving in and spending time among my mother’s things would make me closer to the woman I never really knew.

Stupid really.

Now I learn she wasn’t even Mary-Anne Whitlock.

A few days ago, I found a diary in her bottom drawer. Excited, I sat cross-legged on the floor and began reading.

The entries were brief and a little coded. She’d shortened words into just a few letters, as if writing was laborious for her.

It did hint to her being aware she had health issues. Not that strokes give all that much warning.

Another pain in my arm today. Should go to the doctor. I will do it on Monday. Another argument with A. If only she knew everything. How much I wanted her. What I did to get her.

Huh? It didn’t take much guessing to figure out that I was A. But had she done IVF? It sounded like she had trouble conceiving. I’d assumed all these years that I was a one-night stand if my father wasn’t around.

Recently I’d found a photo in her wallet of a man and tried to grab it from her.

“Who’s this?”

Mom rarely dated. There’d been a lot of men—mostly groups of them—in and out of our home. She never called any of them her boyfriend.

Seeing a photo of one in her wallet caught my attention.

“Aurora! Give that back.”

I stood up from the seat and stared at the image, not letting her grab it out of my hand. The photo was old. Mom must’ve been thirty, thereabouts, and the man had his arm around her.

“Oh, my god. Mom, is this my dad?”

She launched at me and snapped it out of my hand. “Not every man I speak to is your father, for god’s sakes.”

Her comment had been cruel and hurtful. I’d asked a few times, but this was evidence of a man who meant something to her. I deserved to know and had a right to ask.

“Maybe if you told me who he is, or admitted you don’t know, then I could drop it.” I snapped back.

Mom made a big fuss about putting the wallet back in her Chanel handbag and zipped it up, then glared at me.

“Drop it.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I have a right to know who my father is. Just tell me!”

“We’ve had this conversation a thousand times. You do not have a right, and I am not obligated to tell you.”

The pain is hard to describe. The one person who held the secret to a part of your identity was purposely hiding that information. Knowing that it hurt you.

“God, I hate you! Just tell me. Is he famous? Rich? Come on, Mom. What if I promise to never speak to him?” I pleaded, desperate.

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