TEASER:
I rarely ever saw my mother cry. The only time I can recall was when my grandfather died seven years ago. Maybe she did it more times when I wasn't around, but when she cried in front of her children, it meant something. And that's when I learned my father wasn't just another scumbag in our small, low-life city who left his daughter when she was a baby because he "wasn't ready to be a father".
The tears fell, her face turning red and warm, her mascara running. She wiped at her cheeks, her eyes wandering around the room, praying to stop crying. My mother and I were so different. I was softer. I had a harder time holding back my tears, but when my mother let her more vulnerable side show, we were very much alike. I could tell you almost all of her thoughts during situations like these.
She sat on the floor of the garage, scavenging through a couple old boxes. Her cell phone laid next to her, glowing.
I tossed my backpack against the wall and knelt down next to her. "What's wrong?"
"Cynthea," she choked out.
When my mom—anybody used my first name, ninety-nine percent of the time, something I didn't like was about to come out of their mouth.
"I've hidden something from you all of these years."
Yep. Usual I would get mad, but with the state my mom was in right now, I let it slide. For now at least.
She took a deep breath and made a sour face. "You see, your father he was a great man. Loved him to death." She unstably laughed. "I guess that's literally true now."
I'm sorry, what? Did she just tell me subtly that my biological father is dead? And that she never truly loved Harry? After seven years of marriage her love for him was just a lie?!
"Mom I—" I started, but I couldn't finish my own damn sentence. I felt betrayed.
"He really did love you, Thea."
"Yeah maybe. But then why have I never met him?" I asked. I didn't understand. It made no sense.
She pulled out a photo from one of the boxes. On the back, in my mother's sloppy handwriting, it said August 12, 1992. In the picture was a younger version of my mom and I, as I was only four-years-old. But next to us, with his arm around my mom was a scruffy, dark-haired man, smiling. I remembered this day vaguely, but instead of my father I always pictured Harry there. My own head didn't let me remember my dad. How screwed up is that?
"He loved you. He adored you. But he had two other children—boys."
"Which he loved more." It hurt.
"I always believed so. He used to tell me this ridiculous lie about how he was a hunter. Oh, but not a deer hunter!" Her voice broke through out, escalating to almost screaming. "A freaking hunter of the supernatural."
Repita?
"I used to call him crazy, a schizophrenic, when he would tell me the stories about the hunts he'd been on. We fought, and then one night I told him to leave and not to come back until he got help. He called me, said he couldn't stay any longer in town and then left. For good. I waited a while. Six years. But when he never showed back up, I decided to give him a call, only to find his number disabled. Insecurities got in the way and I started to believe that he didn't love me, maybe never did. Maybe he met someone else. And that the only reason he stuck around for as long as he did was because I got pregnant with you. I regret letting him leave everyday."
"Mom?" I tried to say, but it came out only as air. I cleared my throat and attempted again, my voice breaking, splitting the one-syllable word into two.
"I feel guilty everyday, Thea. I really do," Mom said, whispering. "I wish I could take it all back. All those fights. All those moments when I wanted to shoot the man." She laughed. "I'm such a terrible person."
"What was his name?" I asked, staying calm. I wouldn't let myself freak out anymore. I might give my mother a heart attack.
She smiled. "John. John Winchester."