But he never had the chance to know me at all. He was just a child, manipulated by a woman who only saw me as an obstacle.
“I’ll take his number,” I said flatly.
My mother exhaled in relief, but her face fell when she realized what I meant. I wasn’t calling for her.
I was calling for him.
“You can give him my number,” I clarified. “If he wants to talk to me, that’s his choice. And if he doesn’t want to talk to you…” I shrugged.
“That’s his choice too.”
“Rebecca, please —”
“Goodbye, Mom,” I said, and slowly closed the door.
I met Jason a week later at a quiet café across town, my heart pounding as I saw him walk in. He was tall, with dark hair like our mother’s, but his eyes were kind.
He looked nervous but when he spotted me, something in his expression softened.
“I’m so sorry,” were the first words out of his mouth.
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