Chapter Two
Past—Three Years Later
“Wake up, birthday boy.” Mom’s gentle voice softly nudges me awake.
I slowly pry one eye open, catching her sitting on the edge of my bed.
The sun gently filters through my window curtain, casting a warm glow on her golden hair.
It’s styled in a high bun atop her head this morning, with small wavy strands framing her face.
Her blue-green eyes sparkle with kindness. She’s truly beautiful.
“What time is it?” I ask.
She gives a soft smile, leaning over to swipe hair from my dampened forehead.
“It’s time to get up,” she replies.
I groan, pulling the covers up to my chin, refusing to get out of my bed. I watch her as she stands up and heads towards the window. She flings the curtain open, causing me to hiss from the sunlight that almost blinds me.
“What the hell, Mom!” Her laughter fills my room, causing a slight grin to pull at my sleep-crusted mouth. I squint my eyes at her as she walks to the bedroom door.
“Get your ass up before your birthday brunch gets cold.”
After a few stretches and dramatic yawns, I force myself out of bed.
Grabbing a t-shirt and basketball shorts from my dresser, I glance at my phone—it’s almost 12:30 p.m. Multiple texts flash across the screen from my friend Blake, my uncle Jesse, and Blake’s sister, Beck, all wishing me a happy birthday.
Stepping out of my room, the savory smell of various foods surrounds me.
My stomach growls as I follow the tempting aroma coming from the kitchen.
Breakfast items are spread out across the kitchen table: bacon, scrambled eggs, and buttermilk biscuits with gravy.
My mouth instantly waters at the sight of the generous spread before my eyes.
As soon as I sit down, Mom walks over and places a plate in front of me—pancakes shaped like the number 16.
Since I was a year old, it’s been something she’s always done on my birthday.
So simple, yet thoughtful. She’s collected pictures for every birthday, except my thirteenth.
I stare at the pancakes, unable to hide the smirk on my face.
The six is disproportionate, giving Hunchback of Notre Dame vibes, but I keep that thought to myself.
“I have to say this may be your best creation yet, thank you,” I say with a side of humor.
She glances at the pancakes, placing her hands on either hip. I carefully watch as she purses her lips and then responds, “There were a few minor complications with the 6, but I’d say it adds character.” I give a slow, exaggerated nod as we both hold back a laugh.
I pick up my fork, ready to take my first bite.
“Eh, eh, no, sir! Let me get a picture for—” Before she can finish her sentence, the back door flings open, in walks Beck and Blake.
It doesn’t surprise either of us, considering they have a habit of barging in the house like they own the place.
I guess it doesn’t help that they’ve lived two streets over from us since I was around seven.
Plus, Mom has treated them as her own since the first day we met, riding bikes in the street.
It was just the two of them and their dad, Eric.
Their mom had passed away from an unexplained heart attack less than two years prior.
It was too painful for Eric to live in the house where they had once raised their family, so he eventually sold it and moved to our town.
It had only been two days since they moved in when we first met, and from that day on, it was always the three of us.
Beck comes up behind me, wrapping her arms around my neck.
“Happy birthday, Ez.” I give her arm a quick rub, silently thanking her.
She then takes a seat beside me, giving a lax smile.
Her curly, auburn hair hangs down, gathered to one side like she’s always worn it.
Her deep blue eyes meet mine before she turns to my mom.
For a moment, I am distracted by her presence.
She has changed over the years. I always remember the goofy tomboy who tried to keep up with Blake and me.
She never wanted to play with dolls, dress up, or wear makeup.
She would even flip off the neighborhood girls who lived nearby, because she wanted no part in their “girlie” activities.
But now, when I look at Beck, I see she is turning into a woman.
She doesn’t need the little extra things to make her beautiful.
She just is, and honestly, always has been in her own way.
I shake my head, catching myself staring longer than I should. Blake sees me and gives my arm a solid punch before sitting down at the table. “Did you not get my texts this morning, asshole?”
I glare at him, rubbing the spot where his fist connected. “Which one?” I ask through gritted teeth. He rubs his stomach dramatically while Mom gives them each a plate piled high with food.
“The one where the three of us are going to the lake for the day, and then having a bonfire at our place tonight. Dad will be down at the station on-call and already said he’s good with it, as long as Esther agrees.” He states it almost as a question, instantly giving my mom puppy eyes. Pathetic.
She cuts her eyes to me and then back to Blake. “If your dad is good with it, then so am I,” Mom replies casually.
Blake blows her a quick kiss, thanking her for her generosity—which makes Beck and I roll our eyes in sync. Something we’ve done since we were kids, anytime Blake did or said something dramatic. He’s always bragged that he was my mom’s favorite. We just let him talk out of his ass, most days.
“So, what do you think, old man?” he continues.
I keep chewing on my pancake, ignoring his question. Beck interrupts for me. “Old man? You do realize we turn eighteen in four months, right?”
Blake dismisses her comment, replying, “Psh, yeah...but you’re older than me.”
Beck and I exchange glances, then turn back to him. She scoffs. “By one minute and twenty-two seconds, Blake.” The two of them then share their strange, twin-telepathic stare-off before we all, including my mom, burst into ridiculous laughter.
After the birthday brunch, Beck and Blake walk back home to get ready for the lake.
I get up to help Mom clean up the kitchen, despite her initial refusal of at least ten times, until she finally gave in.
There wasn’t much to clean up aside from empty dishes—the twins made sure we left no food behind.
So, in a way, I guess they had pitched in, too.
Once we get everything cleaned up, we head to the living room.
Every year on my birthday, mom and I sit and look through pictures of me from when I was growing up.
Mom has always been one to snap photos of most things.
She’s often talked about how my grandmother loved taking pictures when she was a kid; maybe it’s where she found her love for doing the same.
I’ve tried to picture what my grandmother was like.
I never met her or saw a picture of her.
Mom only has old photos from when she was growing up, and my grandmother had passed away when mom was in her early twenties.
The way mom’s face lights up when she speaks of her makes me believe she was a good person.
How could she not be? She wasn’t Mom’s biological parent, but she sacrificed her own life to save my mom.
I’ve often pondered how my mom would have turned out if she had stayed in foster care longer than she did as a kid.
I couldn’t imagine switching homes constantly and not having stability.
You hear horror stories about people raised in foster care and how they end up as terrible individuals.
But then there is her; the woman who gave birth to me, who has loved me unconditionally through all the hell she’s been through.
We take a seat on the couch, and I watch as she opens the wooden chest, which also serves as a coffee table.
Picture albums stack neatly inside the chest. We gather them all up and begin looking through them.
I glance over at Mom as she excitedly explains every photo and how she remembers each one as if it were yesterday.
We come across one from when she had me at the hospital, my father and Uncle Jesse standing on either side of her as she holds me in the hospital bed.
We both go silent when we see my father’s face, his expression cold with no sign of excitement for my arrival.
Meanwhile, Jesse has a side smirk, smiling down at my mom.
Over the years, I’ve quietly wondered why she’s kept the few photos that include my father.
Sometimes I wish I could forget he ever existed; other times, I want to remember exactly who he was.
Or maybe it’s because I knew that no matter how hard we tried to erase him from our lives, something deeply embedded him in this house and our minds forever.
Mom flips to the next page of photos and laughs through her nose, quickly pulling a picture out from the album.
I gently grab it, instantly grinning when I see three goofy kids’ faces looking back at me.
The photo was taken shortly after meeting Beck and Blake on our street.
In the front, Blake and I are sitting on our bikes, smiling so big.
Off to the side sits Beck, on her bicycle, lips puffed out and arms crossed, giving us her best evil eye.
Blake and I had just told her moments before the picture was taken that she had cooties and couldn’t hang with us boys.
She got so mad; I knew right then she had a fiery side to her, and it wouldn’t be easy to keep her away.
It annoyed me at first, but as time passed, she grew on me.
And what I mean by when time passed is that the three of us were inseparable just one day after Blake and I swore to keep her cooties away.