I Paid His Down Payment, But My Son Thanked His Stepmom Instead Chapter 08

From the moment Tamsin stood at my door in soaked shoes and pleaded, “Delphine, if you don’t Are me, I’ve got nowhere to sleep tonight,” she wanted more than a job.

She wanted my son.

And I was the one who opened the door for her.

Sixteen years ago, hearing him say that would’ve had me flying at him, ready to claw his faceoff

Now, I was just exhausted.

For a while after the divorce, I couldn’t sleep at night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother on a gurney outside the OR, Rourke hiding behind

Tamsin.

I hated Barrett. I hated Tamsin. And I hated myself.

I hated that I’d been softhearted enough to hire her. I hated that I’d signed that document.

Years later, I was teaching piano, and a little girl kept hitting the same wrong note.

She burst into tears and asked, “Ms. Marchetti, am I just stupid?”

I told her, “You’re not stupid. This note’s hard. Get it wrong, just try again.”

After I said it, I sat on the piano bench for a long time.

I’d hit plenty of wrong notes in my life.

But I didn’t want to stay stuck in the same measure forever.

“Barrett.” I pushed the check back. “Take your money.”

“I’m not digging up the past.”

“Not for anyone else’s sake.”

“I just don’t want to deal with it anymore.”

Barrett stared at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.

He was about to say something when Junie opened the door.

“Ms. Marchetti’s resting. Visiting hours are over.”

He left the fruit basket behind.

Junie picked it up and gave it to the elderly gentleman next door.

By the time it was completely dark, someone knocked on my door again.

This time, it was Rourke.

His eyes were red, his shirt was wrinkled, and he was clutching a yellowed piece of paper.

It was the crayon drawing from the fridge.

He must have gone back to the old house.

“Mom.” He stood in the doorway without coming in, his voice trembling so badly that he could

barely speak.

“When I was twelve, I told the court you took the money and didn’t want me.”

“Those things I said…” He drew a shaky breath. “Tamsin taught me every word.”

I looked at him and remained silent for a long time.

He stood in the doorway like a little boy who’d done something wrong and was scared to come in.

“The night before the hearing, Tamsin sat on my

bed.”

“She said the whole class was laughing at me because of the scene you made at school.”

“She said if I told the judge you took the money and abandoned me, he wouldn’t let you come around anymore. Then nobody would laugh at me.”

“I was twelve. I believed her.” His voice faded with every word.

“Later, whenever I missed you, she’d say you took the money and left because you didn’t want me.”

“She said it so many times I started to believe it.”

Junie sat on the edge of the bed, clutching a tissue so tight it was nearly shredded.

I asked him, “What about the sneakers?”

He looked confused. “What sneakers?”

“The pair I sent you for your fifteenth birthday.”

“The ones that showed up back on my doorstep the next day, unopened.”

“The box said, ‘Stop sending me things.””

His face changed. “I never saw any sneakers.”

I closed my eyes.

I remembered those words. The handwriting was neat and pretty, every stroke careful.

It matched the signature on that parent-teacher conference slip from years ago.

So she’d turned down even that one small attempt I’d made to see him-on his behalf.

“I see.”