Page 31 of Fair Trade

After asking about the whereabouts of my father as a young boy and my mother giving vague, roundabout answers, I learned not to ask anymore. And honestly? It didn’t matter, because she was more than enough to fulfill every role in my life.

My mother and I were a team. A well-oiled machine when it came to our routines. Until she dropped a bombshell on me.

She was pregnant.

The kicker?

My dad, the man who was a ghost for all I knew, was the father of the baby girl on the way.

Things were never truly the same after that conversation.

I was angry and confused. Understandable for anyone to be, but for a ten-year-old boy whose mother was the sun he orbited? It was downright devastating.

To know that she lied, even if by omission by keeping details about my father a secret, cut deeply.

That she would dare go back, even for a night, to a man who had no qualms about abandoning his family and would continue to live his life in luxury while we were always on the fringes of financial ruin.

A man who had the gall to walk into my life with a stuffed animal and a balloon as if I were a toddler and not a preadolescent, brimming with rage at the unfairness of it all.

“Things will be different. We’re finally going to be a family now, mijo.” My mother would say, sometimes, I believe, more for herself than for me.

Because as my mother’s belly grew rounder, we saw less and less of my father.

Calls went unanswered and visits became nonexistent.

He never even bothered to visit my mother in the hospital when she gave birth to Daisy.

The baby I was also angry with for infiltrating my life and forcing me to share my mother, my only family.

But the second they placed my little sister in my arms, wailing softly moments after she was born, I knew I had it all wrong.

Because my little sister was not the enemy; she was our saving grace.

It feels foolish to say, but the longer I held her, the more I could feel my anger quickly leaving my body. No longer furious with my mother and her choice of procreation partner, but grateful that she had given me another person I could now call my family.

After my mother passed, the most my father did for us was pay for boarding school here in the States. Mostly because the cat was out of the bag that he had two illegitimate children, and apparently that’s what cold-blooded rich people do when they want a problem solved. They make it go away. Daisy was only a year old, but I begged for him to keep us together. She was the only family I had left.

It was me and her from there on out. She was the last piece of my mother here on this earth, and I vowed from a young age that I would always protect her, that no harm would ever come to her.

Yet here I am, tangled in a clusterfuck with my sperm donor because I dared to gamble something that rightfully belonged to both Daisy and me, and he had managed to beat me at my own game.

And my grandfather, in a pitiful attempt to make amends with me for turning a blind eye when he knew damn well of my existence, offered to play peacemaker for my father and me.

He was legally in possession of what I needed to get back.

I was hoping his will would state that he was gracefully returning it to me in one piece, but in true Arthur Stonehaven fashion, everything seemed to be a game for him. There were two ways for me to resolve this matter according to his will. One I’m currently taking seriously by actually putting in the work as owner of a damn baseball team.

The other option would be much quicker, but I’d much sooner flush my billions down the toilet than entertain the preposterous idea.

With that in mind, I pull up my New York Monarchs inbox and skip over every email Marla has flagged for me until I land on an unread email from Luisa.

Ah, Luisa. Just what I needed.

I don’t think. I let my fingers fly as I respond to her email.

As I press Send, I feel the faintest bit of a smile on my face and realize it’s probably the closest I’ve come to that expression since I last saw her.

I roll my eyes at my absurd thought as I gleefully reread my response.