Page 4 of Fighting Chance
Along with the knowledge that the foster home would get shut down and the children would be shipped off to another one. I’ve heard horror stories worse than mine, and I wouldn’t be able to handle it if my actions sentenced innocent children to a far worse fate.
Doesn’t mean I did nothing though.
Although I think the children would have preferred being saved from her wrath rather than anonymous donations that kept food in their bellies and clothes on their back.
She picks up the paperwork on her desk, her red-framed glasses sitting on the perch of her nose as she drawls, “A child was brought to us two weeks ago, one named Emmy Callaghan.” She lowers the paper in her hands, peering at me over her glasses. “Does the name ring a bell?”
Raking through my memories, I throw the name around, coming up blank. “No, should it?”
“Well, considering she’s your daughter, I hoped it would have.”
A bomb detonating would be far less shocking than how that sentence rattles through my body.
Time seems to slow, the room growing cold and silent, theonly sound the blood rushing through my ears. I might have stopped breathing.
“M-my daughter?” I stutter. “I don’t have children.”
“That you’re aware of.”
My heart skips a beat.
No.
I’m careful, beyond fucking careful.
“This must be a mistake. I would know?—”
She slides a piece of paper across the desk, silencing me. “No mistake. We still have your DNA on file from when you were living with us, and as you know, we run the DNA of the children who come to us in the hopes a living relative would be available to contact. Imagine my surprise when it rang alarm bells, pointing to you as her father.”
It isn’t until I lean forward to pick up the document that I realize how badly my hands are shaking. My eyes flick back and forth, and I only get through the first paragraph before the words start to blur, the room spinning. The sheet falls from my hand.
By the gleam in the matron’s eye, she’s savoring this moment. Soaking up every second of my shocked stupor.
If I were in my right mind, I’d ask for a moment alone to process the revelation but I’m not because…Christ. A daughter—I have achild.
How could I not know? Why didn’t her mom tell me?
And more importantly, why the fuck is she here?
That thought hits me like a ton of bricks.
My head snaps up, my teeth baring as I lunge forward, placing my hands on the desk and crowding the matron’s personal space. “I swear to fucking god, if you touched so much as a single hair on that child’s head, I will fucking destroy you.”
She has the wits to pale as she leans back. “As I said before?—”
“Cut the bullshit,” I spit. “Did you touch her?”
The matron shakes her head. “No.”
I swallow the urge to reach out and throttle the woman that beat me to a bloody pulp so often that I lost count, reminding myself I’d be no better than her, and physically force myself to take my seat once more. I slowly breathe in through my nose. “You said she’s been here for two weeks. Why wasn’t I contacted sooner?”
“The DNA results just came in yesterday.”
I have a million and one questions swarming my mind, all of them fighting for the chance to roll off my tongue first. One wins out.
“How did she end up here?”
The she-devil rubs the nape of her neck, and that single movement has me shielding my heart and mind, preparing myself for the worst. “What happened to her mother?” I demand.
