Page 1 of Keeping Promises

Grams is going to kill me when she finds out I skipped school and used my life savings—well, the allowance I had in my piggy bank at least—and took the bus to the city. I never disobey her or skip school, but I have good reason to do so, and I hope she goes easy on me with my punishment being my first offense. Kimmie Jensen told me that I couldn’t go to the father-daughter dance on Friday without a father, so here I am standing in front of a brick building with a sign that reads “Maxwell Financial.”

I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

As I enter the office, I find a gentleman rummaging through paperwork on a desk. He must not have heard me come in because his head is still down, focused on what’s in front of him instead of me. He mumbles loudly under his breath, “Why the hell did I give her the day off. I can’t find shit in here.”

He glances up, and my breath hitches. It’s him. I always thought I looked like my mother, that is until I was face-to-face with my father. I now see where my nose comes from and the piercing blue eyes that Grams always tells me will bring men to their knees one day, whatever that means.

He clears his throat. “Excuse me, are you lost, little girl?”

I’m still staring at him. Does he not recognize me? Does he not realize who I am?

“Hello.” He straightens up and waves his hand in front of me. “Darling, if you are selling something, we don’t want any, but thank you. You can see yourself out.”

He motions to the door behind me before turning around to head back to his office when I finally find my words.

“Are you Colin Maxwell?” I nibble on my bottom lip. I don’t know why I ask that, but I need to hear him say it.

When he spins around, he glares at me as if he were trying to see right through me. The creased lines between his eyebrows remind me so much of mine when I scowl, and I find myself running my fingers over that spot on my forehead subconsciously. “Yes, look, sweetheart, do you need to call your parents or something?”

I shake my head. I shrug my backpack off my shoulder and reach in to pull out a photo. “I found your photo in my mother’s things.” I cling to the picture that I found in the box of my mother’s belongings that Grams keeps in the back of her closet. She wouldn’t be happy to know I went snooping in the box, but I needed answers.

“Who’s your mother?” he asks, leaning back on the corner of the desk, crossing his arms and ankles. I seem to have caught his attention because he seems interested now instead of ready to escort me out of the building.

“Christine Kincaid.” I hand him the photo I’ve been clutching in my hands.

“Holy shit, Teeny Kincaid.” A smile forms on his lips. I guess happy memories fill his brain—something I don’t have—before his expression turns grim, and he runs his hand over his jawline. “Did she send you here?” His brows furrow.

“No, she, umm…” I sigh. “She died five years ago.” My Grams has raised me my whole life. After my mother gave birth to me, she decided she wasn’t ready to be a mother and turned to drugs. She overdosed when I was eight, but by then, my grandmother already had full custody of me, and my memories of my mother are limited to her randomly stopping by to “borrow” money from my Grams in order to “get her life back together so that we could be a family.” She always said, “Next time, I promise,” till the next time never came. Instead, my Grams got a call from the county morgue needing her to identify my mother’s body, which was found in a back alley. Now, I was left with nothing but broken promises and a few photos to remember her by.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

I shrug. People are always saying they’re sorry, but what exactly do they have to be sorry for? It’s not like I knew her really or had fond memories of her, but my Grams taught me to be polite, so I respond, “Thank you.”

“I’m not sure, then, what that has to do with me?”

I once heard in a movie a father say the moment that he looked into his daughter’s eyes, his life was forever changed. But here I am looking into my father’s eyes, and he doesn’t even know who I am. Does he not see the resemblance between us?

“Well, I’m your daughter.”

“Woah, woah, sweetheart.” He quickly rises as he chokes out an awkward laugh. “I’m not sure what exactly you’re getting at or what you’re after.”

I bring my bottom lip between my teeth to keep it from trembling due to the harshness of his voice.

“I’m… I’m not after anything. I… I…” I look down at my hands nervously.

“Did you think you could come here and what, we’d live happily ever after as I play the doting dad role? Well, sorry to disappoint you.” He scrunches his eyebrows together. “Umm, what was your name again?”

“It’s Hadley. My name is Hadley.”What did my mother ever see in him?

“Well, Hadley.” My name sounds bitter from his lips. How can someone hate you when they just met you? “I don’t mean to sound like a prick, but how do I even know you’re mine. No offense, but your mom slept with a lot of guys, not just me.” I cringe at his crude talk of my mother, not that I would know the difference. His words may say he doesn’t believe me, but his eyes tell all—he knows I’m telling the truth.

He sighs heavily. “Even if it were true, I’m no good for you. I didn’t even know about you till now. To be honest, I’m not surprised that your mother didn’t tell me before. If she had, I probably would have told her to get rid of it or something. I don’t want kids—never have, never will. No offense. I’m sure you’re a good kid and all.”

“But—” I begin to say as tears trickle down my cheek.

“There are no buts. Your mother knew the lifestyle I lived when we started…” He trails off, saving me another poorly painted picture of my mother in my mind. “I won’t change my mind. You shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.” But I don’t think he is.

The father-daughter dance invitation now feels as if it weighs a ton of bricks in my backpack. Coming here was a mistake.

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