Chapter 1
From the beginning…
(Weeks after Ford’s injury)
Reclining on my sofa with my eyes to the ceiling, I flinched when the ringing of my phone cut through the silence. Sitting upright, I glanced at my cell’s animated screen and sighed. It wasn’t that I had a problem with this particular caller; it was that I didn’t want to talk to anyone at that moment.
Nevertheless, respect for this person made me answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, son number two!” Miss Iesha sang into my ear.
I had to smile since she called my teammate, Ford, “second son” and me, “son number two.” Wasn’t that technically the same thing?
Too cute.
“Hey, Mama Iesha. How you doing?” I asked Jones, the Sires left wing’s, sweet mom.
“Now, if you really wanted to know how I am, you would’ve shown up for me and Coach’s engagement party yesterday. Big South made an appearance, you know?”
Damn, I missed Big South?I thought, but said, “Yeah…I’m sorry about that. I…uh…I’m dealing with some stuff right now, Miss Iesha. That’s why I couldn’t make it.”
“I know, baby, and I’m not mad at you. I just want you to know that I love you. We all do. I won’t pretend to know what it feels like to be you, but I just want to remind you that family doesn’t have to be blood. Family is what you make it.”
I smiled and shook my head. I knew she meant well, but stuff like this was easy for someone to say when they knew who their blood relatives were. I had no idea.
Still, I replied, “Yes, ma’am. I love you, too.”
“I know you do. Well, let me get off here. I think I hear my Jules calling me. I hope to see you soon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After the call ended, I clutched the phone in my hand, my eyes fixed on the dormant TV mounted on the wall across the living room from me. My mind was full, and my heart was heavy. I was so damn tired, tired of wanting something it didn’t seem I’d ever have—my own family.
* * *
Here are the things I know about myself, the supposed facts:
Some of these things, these facts, have bothered me for a while, but not in a major way. Until recently, they lived in the back of my mind like a repressed memory or a dull ache that doesn’t cripple you but annoys you, nonetheless. The annoyance was never enough for me to search for more information. I suppose I was too busy living life to care, but the older I get, the more I want to know, need to know, who I am and whose I am.