of her life after I just had such a difficult breakup with Jeremy, and the one night I spent with Crash, made me a little bit jealous to be honest. But it's super crappy to be jealous of your mom's happiness. So I just tried to push that feeling away.
Chapter Eight
I was going through the last box of things in my mother's house, making sure there wasn’t any heirloom jewelry or other precious artifacts of my mother's life inside. There were baby pictures of me at the bottom. It was hard to believe that I’d ever been so cute and small.
I was partially tempted to throw them away, but I packed them up with the rest of the photographs, knowing that it was what my mother would've wanted. I dug deeper into the box, finding baby shoes and tiny articles of clothing that must have belonged to me when I was little. I set them aside as well.
At the very bottom of the box was an old, yellowing envelope with a name and address on the front. The name was Donald Porter with an address in Malibu. Why would my mom have an old letter addressed to someone in Malibu? It wasn't sealed, so I opened it up and pulled out the letter inside.
It read:
Dear Don,
It has been over a year since I left your service. Things ended poorly between us. I know that you are going to marry that woman, and I wish you the best of luck in your life. I can't hold any grudges against you for your choices. Believe me, I understand. You and I are from different worlds. It never would have worked out, no matter how much we loved each other. Or how much I love you. But I thought you should know I've had your son. He looks just like you, my beautiful boy. I've named Andrew after your father. I hope that someday you will claim him as your own and give him the life I cannot.
Yours truly,
Jessica Nolan
I sat in the dim light of my mother's bedroom staring at the yellowed, crinkled paper. I couldn't believe what I was reading. This Don Porter guy was my father. She'd never told me. And she'd obviously never sent the letter. Thoughts raced through my mind. He never knew about me. He and my mother had once been lovers. She had obviously loved him very much.
Had he rejected her for some rich bitch from his own social class? How dare he leave my mother like that? Pregnant, broke, and alone. It didn't matter that he didn't know about the baby— me.
What kind of asshat rejects a woman like my mother just because she has a little bit less money and less social connections and all the bullshit the rich seem to idealize? My mother was the best woman on the planet. If this Don fellow couldn't see that, fuck him.
Rage boiled in my gut. I hadn't had a fight in weeks and I'd been drinking the whole time I cleared my mother's house out. My mind was a blur of emotion and pain. I wanted to punch something. What I wanted to punch more than anything was this asshole named Don Porter.
He deserved a piece of my mind. He deserved to know what he’d done to a wonderful woman like my mother. And I intended to make him pay for what he’d done.
I went out to the garage and opened the door to reveal my classic Indian motorcycle. I'd found it cheap while I was still in high school and had restored it with my own two hands over the years. While I'd been away, my mom had stored it for me. It was still in perfect condition. I knew that she had been struggling. She could've sold the bike at any time to pay her bills. But she never had.
That was the kind of woman this Don guy had rejected and left alone to raise a baby by herself on the mean streets of Los Angeles.
I climbed on my bike and turned the key. It rumbled to life, and I backed it out of the garage and onto the street. I clicked the garage door opener, and the door slid closed, bumping along on its rusty chain. A moment later, I was driving down the street. I pulled out onto the highway towards Malibu, revving my engine with all the hate and rage that swirled inside of me.
This Don guy was in for a world of hurt
Chapter Eight
I was going through the last box of things in my mother's house, making sure there wasn’t any heirloom jewelry or other precious artifacts of my mother's life inside. There were baby pictures of me at the bottom. It was hard to believe that I’d ever been so cute and small.
I was partially tempted to throw them away, but I packed them up with the rest of the photographs, knowing that it was what my mother would've wanted. I dug deeper into the box, finding baby shoes and tiny articles of clothing that must have belonged to me when I was little. I set them aside as well.
At the very bottom of the box was an old, yellowing envelope with a name and address on the front. The name was Donald Porter with an address in Malibu. Why would my mom have an old letter addressed to someone in Malibu? It wasn't sealed, so I opened it up and pulled out the letter inside.
It read:
Dear Don,
It has been over a year since I left your service. Things ended poorly between us. I know that you are going to marry that woman, and I wish you the best of luck in your life. I can't hold any grudges against you for your choices. Believe me, I understand. You and I are from different worlds. It never would have worked out, no matter how much we loved each other. Or how much I love you. But I thought you should know I've had your son. He looks just like you, my beautiful boy. I've named Andrew after your father. I hope that someday you will claim him as your own and give him the life I cannot.
Yours truly,
Jessica Nolan
I sat in the dim light of my mother's bedroom staring at the yellowed, crinkled paper. I couldn't believe what I was reading. This Don Porter guy was my father. She'd never told me. And she'd obviously never sent the letter. Thoughts raced through my mind. He never knew about me. He and my mother had once been lovers. She had obviously loved him very much.
Had he rejected her for some rich bitch from his own social class? How dare he leave my mother like that? Pregnant, broke, and alone. It didn't matter that he didn't know about the baby— me.
What kind of asshat rejects a woman like my mother just because she has a little bit less money and less social connections and all the bullshit the rich seem to idealize? My mother was the best woman on the planet. If this Don fellow couldn't see that, fuck him.
Rage boiled in my gut. I hadn't had a fight in weeks and I'd been drinking the whole time I cleared my mother's house out. My mind was a blur of emotion and pain. I wanted to punch something. What I wanted to punch more than anything was this asshole named Don Porter.
He deserved a piece of my mind. He deserved to know what he’d done to a wonderful woman like my mother. And I intended to make him pay for what he’d done.
I went out to the garage and opened the door to reveal my classic Indian motorcycle. I'd found it cheap while I was still in high school and had restored it with my own two hands over the years. While I'd been away, my mom had stored it for me. It was still in perfect condition. I knew that she had been struggling. She could've sold the bike at any time to pay her bills. But she never had.
That was the kind of woman this Don guy had rejected and left alone to raise a baby by herself on the mean streets of Los Angeles.
I climbed on my bike and turned the key. It rumbled to life, and I backed it out of the garage and onto the street. I clicked the garage door opener, and the door slid closed, bumping along on its rusty chain. A moment later, I was driving down the street. I pulled out onto the highway towards Malibu, revving my engine with all the hate and rage that swirled inside of me.
This Don guy was in for a world of hurt
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