When I’m done, I rest my forehead against the cool porcelain, not even caring about germs anymore.
“You okay in there, baby?” I whisper, my hand finding its way to my stomach. “I’m sorry things are so messed up. I didn’t know… I still don’t know…”
Tears threaten again. How, I’ll never know. I’ve cried more in the last eight hours than I have in the past five years. At this point, the liquid coming out of my eyes is pure Pedialyte.
Back on the lumpy bed, I grab my laptop—my own, not Vince’s—and open a fresh browser window. My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before I type:
The search results load, and suddenly, I’m staring at the face of a man who is allegedly my father.
Silver hair. Unforgiving eyes. Scars pockmarking his cheeks and forehead.
He looks nothing like me, but
