Page 16 of Whatever It Takes

I blink, wetness sopping my lashes.

I hate that they won’t show me anything real right now—that I have to spy in order to see it.

My mom straightens up and rubs her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Go upstairs, honey.” Her voice cracks.

“Who’s my father?” I ask.

“Rob Moore is your father, and he’s Ellie’s too,” she says adamantly. “It’s not what you think—”

“I’m leaving,” my father says, his tears dried up. Another glare plastered on his face.

He hardly acknowledges me.

He passes me to reach the doorway, and our bodies seem to lean away from each other, like pressing the wrong side of two magnets together, unable to near.

He has a clear aversion to me, and now I think I know why. He believes I’m not his child, even when I really am.

I listen to his footsteps all the way to the living room. Not long after, the door bangs closed, and my mom turns her back on me, beginning to clean a few dirtied glasses in the sink. She can’t just act like nothing happened.

“Mom!” I shout.

“I’m done talking…” Her arms shake like mine, and maybe a year ago, I would’ve stayed quiet and just gathered these bare details and created my own horrific conclusion. I don’t want to live with this half-picture anymore. I don’t want to see through clouds, stained glass and opaque screens. I want transparency for myownlife, and only she can give that to me.

“I’m not done.” My voice is softer than I intend. She doesn’t turn around. I take a deep, strong inhale. “Mom,” I choke, “I’mnotdone.”

She slowly spins around, her hand fisting a dishtowel, eyes bloodshot. She waits for me to speak this time.

I lick my lips and I ask, “Do I have a brother?” She lied about him. I’m not sure if I can trust her, and I’m not sure if I should love her—but I do love her, and I do still trust her. That can’t vanish that quickly.

But right now, I resent her. For the first time, I truly do. And I hate it.

“Willow…” She shakes her head at me, struggling to reveal what she’s kept secret for so long.

I wipe my burning eyes beneath my glasses. I shift my feet and accidentally step on a balloon. It pops loudly, and we both flinch.

My family tree has been set on fire, and I’m desperately trying to findonemissing branch so I can make sense of myself again.

I need him.

Whoever he is. I need to know what he’s like. How old he is. A name. A place. Maybe he understands things that I don’t. Maybe he gets it.

“It was a long time ago,” she says. “I was a teenager, about your age, a little younger when I was pregnant.” She lets out a weak, broken laugh. “You can’t even imagine…”

I watch her lean against the sink and stare off at the half-eaten vanilla cake, lopsided on the counter. “Is he still alive? Does he know—”

“Loren Hale,” she says, her voice suddenly stoic and cold. “That’s your brother.”

My legs want to buckle, but I manage to stay upright, my mind whirling as pieces of a much larger puzzle fit in place. “He knew…” He came toourhouse about four years ago. She told me that she knew his father. And I realize, his visit wasn’t random. He came and he left so quickly. “Did you tell him not to tell me?” I wonder.

Her lips press in a line, and I take her silence as affirmation.

“Oh my God,” I mutter, my chin trembling again as I restrain a flood of tears. She kept him away from me. Why would she do that?

Loren Hale is my half-brother. All this time…we could’ve talked, had a relationship, been friends—seen each other. Instead there’s just this black hole ofnothingness, hollow and empty.

I feel empty.

“Can you just forget about it?” my mom asks me.