Paige stands frozen. For as long as I’ve known her, she has been gearing up for this moment. She has rehearsed it over and over in her mind—what she would say, what she would do. So I stand there, anticipating the release that’s about to erupt from Paige.
Nothing comes out. Not a sound. Not an action. Nothing.
A woman’s disembodied voice calls out from the crowd. “Mom? Is everything all right?”
I turn, half expecting to see young Emma. But instead, a woman with wavy jet-black hair breaks through the crowd. She’s elegant and striking. Her cocktail dress is flattering but not revealing. She’s tall, like her father, with dark eyes, like her father.
But here’s the thing—she’s roughly the age as Paige and me. And nothing in her features bears any resemblance to Priscilla.
“Mom,” the woman repeats, “are you okay?”
Paige casts a sideways glance at this woman who called Priscilla “Mom.” She looks her up and down as though trying to comprehend the math and the DNA to explain all this.
I appraise the trio, doing my own mental gymnastics to understand the relationship. Judging by the dominant genes in this young woman’s features, she’s clearly the man’s daughter. She bears no resemblance to Priscilla, the woman she just called “Mom.” Priscilla must be her stepmom.
Before I can continue my analysis, young Emma emerges. She wraps her arms around Priscilla in concern. “Mommy, are you okay?” she says in an infantile tone.
Then Emma’s eyes fall on Paige. Her confused look melts into one of recognition. The father’s expression remains polite, but I can see a sneer develop as he realizes who this person standing before him is.
Paige and I stare at this family—this perfect picturesque quartet that once was happy and content, staring back at two interlopers who have ruined their evening. Priscilla takes a step forward. Paige flinches and recoils back a step. Her arm rises slightly as if to defend herself against a strike.
This is it. This is Paige’s moment to confront the woman who abandoned her—who dumped her in a foster system that nearly broke her. It wasn’t because of drugs or poverty or any of the myriad reasons Paige concocted in her imagination. It was so this woman could come live here. Paige’s journey of suffering—every strike, every insult, every unwanted touch—was for the benefit of this woman’s comfort.
As I wait for Paige to say these things—to kick into gear and fight the way she has her whole life—I become aware of the silence, not just from the crowd around us but from Paige as well.
I turn to look at my friend. She’s paralyzed. After all this time spent searching and preparing for this encounter in her mind—this one moment that she’s built her entire life around—she’s frozen. I look closer at her. She’s practically catatonic.
I’ve known her to withdraw into depression before but never this quickly or deeply. She’s not just hurt—she’s broken.
“Paige?” Priscilla calls again.
I whip my head around and stare daggers at this woman. She takes a step back when she sees my eyes. Her whole family does.
My hands curl into shaking fists, and my blood boils. How dare she address my friend after what she’s done? I very much consider unleashing hell on her and everyone here. I could, too. It’s two hours past my regular dosage, and the demon inside me rages to be released. I don’t think I would regret it one bit if I did.
The alert goes off on my new smartwatch. The beeping jolts Paige from her daze. She looks down at my watch, then up at me, then at my targets. She reaches out, and her fingers insert themselves into my fists, relaxing my grip. Our fingers interlock. When I turn to look at her, she shakes her head.
I close my eyes and take deep, steady breaths. My shoulders relax, then my arms, my hands, then my entire body. By sheer will, I force my heart rate to slow down. After more deep breaths, I am in complete control.
I open my eyes and turn to Paige. I need to get her out of here, away from this place and these people. “Paige,” I whisper, “let’s go home.”
She doesn’t resist as I lead her out, shoving men and women out of our way. They stumble back, and I even knock a couple of men off their feet. When I try to glare one last time at Judge William Whitaker, he’s disappeared.
We exit the backyard and leave the guests behind. We don’t look back as we storm through the house. With my arm wrapped around her waist, I escort Paige off the property. We’re halfway to my car when Paige stumbles. Her knees buckle, and she nearly falls forward before I catch her.
“Come on,” I say, “we’re almost there.”
She struggles to breathe, gulping for air like she’s drowning. She’s not drowning—she’s sobbing. As her legs give way under her own weight, I guide her to the steps of a nearby house. We collapse beneath the light of an illuminated archway of someone’s front lawn.
I hold Paige against my shoulder as she wails. Tears pour out as she comes to terms with what just happened. A life of misconceived notions, hopes, and dreams has been dashed away in a single moment. Her body convulses as if trying to control the overwhelming emotional pain.
“She didn’t want me,” she sputters between sobs. “She didn’t want me.”
I hold her closer, not knowing what to say to make things better.
“Why didn’t she want me?” she whimpers. “Why didn’t she love me?”
Tears stream down my face as I think about that four-year-old girl who was abandoned—who tried to understand why her mom suddenly disappeared from her life. She had no home, no family, no one to love her. She must have been so lost. So confused. My hold tightens around Paige, and I wish I could have been there for her twenty-one years ago. I wish I could have held that little girl
