“Depression?”

Chazarae nods. “Becca’s very sick, Josh. She was diagnosed with depression when her mother passed. I’m sure it’s something that was there long before the diagnosis. How could it not be? When she got here she was at a very low point in her life—then you and Tommy came along and you changed all of that. She has a tendency to become attached to those who show her love—for people who can make her feel safe. Especially—and please don’t take this the wrong way—but especially boys. She feels a level of comfort and safety because their touch is gentle and different to her mother’s. I’m sure it’s not the same with you, though. In fact, I’m positive it’s not. Becca genuinely loved you, Josh,” she says, her voice breaking. “I don’t want you to think her condition made your time together any less than it was. While you were together, you gave her an extreme level of joy and happiness and when things started to fall apart with you guys, she fell into a deep, dark hole, one I couldn’t get her out of.” She pauses a beat, as if hesitating to tell me more. After a while, she continues. “After Tommy broke his arm, I caught her in her room at three in the morning, her lights were on and she was rocking back and forth in the corner biting down on her thumb. She wouldn’t react to my voice, to my touch, nothing. So I called Olivia and asked her for help. I can’t remember the exact words she used, but she likened it to training a dog; when they do something good, you give them a treat and after a while their brains link the two. When Becca thought she did something bad, her mind automatically associated it with pain so she bit on her thumb looking for that link. The other night she bit down on it so hard she broke skin.”

“Jesus Christ.” I wipe tears off my cheeks. “She took something, right? That’s why she had to get her stomach pumped?”

Chazarae nods. “She had pain killers left over from the accident. She took whatever was left in the bottle. I found her unconscious, Josh. We’re just lucky the ambulance got there in time.”

My hands shook as I stared straight ahead, my mind numb and my breaths short. “I’ll never forgive myself,” I tell her.

“You have to, Josh.” She places a piece of paper in my hand and stands up. “Becca says you have to.”

I wait until she’s in her house before looking down at the note—the one in Becca’s handwriting.

 

Grams,

Forgiveness is the final form of love.

Joshua deserves both.

Continue to love him like I do.

Like I always will.

-Becca.

 

 

32

-Joshua-

I look at the framed picture in my hand—the one from her birthday. I stare at her smile, a smile that reached her eyes and I find it so hard to believe that behind those eyes, there was a whole other side of her I didn’t know existed.

I should’ve known, right?

When she’d cried in my arms, I should have asked.

I should’ve pushed her.

I should’ve made her talk to me.

I should’ve done so many things I didn’t.

And I shouldn’t have done so many things I did.

But like they say, regrets are useless.

They also say that time heals all wounds.

And as I sit here—looking at a still image that makes me question everything—I don’t see how time, or anything else, can heal me.

Heal us.

A knock on my door has my eyes snapping to the sound—and for a moment, I almost forget that it’s not her. It can’t be.

And when I open the door, it’s the complete opposite.

“Natalie.”

I look for a sign of compassion in her eyes—something to say that she’s sorry for what she did—for being the catalyst that tore me down, wore me out, and finally broke me.

“I want full custody of Thomas,” she says, and I blink, tilting my head so my ear’s closer to her—because I must’ve heard wrong. “I’m using my grandmother’s trust fund to hire lawyers. And there’s a lot of money there, Josh. I’m going to fight for him. And I’ll win. I’ll spend every spare second of every day, every single cent I have until I get what I want—what Thomas deserves.”

With narrowed eyes, I take a step forward. “Who the hell is going to grant you rights to a child you fucking abandoned?”

She doesn’t budge. Not an inch. She stands in front of me, toe to toe. Eye to eye. “A judge who’s not going to want a child in danger of your temper. All I have to do is tell them how you acted that night. She holds up her phone. “I have pictures of your truck—the truck you destroyed in a fit of rage all while your son stood in a house ten feet away. He’s not safe with you, Josh. He’s better off with me.”

I slam the door in her face because I’m too afraid of what’ll happen if I have to look at her a second longer.

I stand, staring at the wall, my fists balled, letting the anger filter through me. And once the anger has passed, I let reality sink in. And for the millionth time since my mom showed up on my doorstep, I break.

Seriously, how many times can a person break before the only things left are shattered fragments too small to piece back together?

I slump down on the couch and look back at the picture again—only this time, my focus isn’t on Becca; it’s on Tommy.

And I remember one of the first things I ever told Becca: that there are some sacrifices greater than love. And some loves greater than any sacrifice. Tommy was greater than both.

And because of that, I stand up, grab my keys and get in my car.

And I give up the only thing I have left to sacrifice.

My pride.

 

My mom’s eyes widen when she opens the door, then drop to Tommy standing in front of me.

“I need your help.”

Without a word, she opens the door wider. She doesn’t stop us when I take Tommy’s hand to help him climb the stairs to their bedroom. She stays silent as she follows behind and when I walk into the room, my dad’s eyes widen, first at me and then at his grandson. He looks behind me, I assume at my mother, his lips part but he doesn’t make a sound.

He never does.

Through the lump in my throat, I force out my words. “Tommy this is your…” I look at my mom. “What do you want to be called?”

She sniffs once, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Nanni,” she whispers.

“Tommy this is your nanni, this is Daddy’s mamma.”

Tommy’s narrowed eyebrows shadow his clear blue eyes. “Daddy’s mamma?”

“Yes.” I point to my dad, “And this is Daddy’s daddy…”

“Pa,” my mom says. “Nanni and Pa.”

Tommy looks at my dad, lying on his back in his hospital type bed—the same way I’d seen him since I found out about his illness. “You is Pa?” he asks quietly.

My mom lets out a single sob.

My dad doesn’t move.

Robby and Kim knock on their front door—showing up exactly when I’d wanted them to.

Tommy smiles when he sees them enter my parents’ room, even though he just left them.

“This is your grandson: Thomas Joshua Christian. My son. My world. And I need your help, because I’m going to lose him.”