Peyton Church is a city girl by anyone's standards. Born and raised in New York City, she grew up wanting for nothing. She attended the most prestigious preparatory schools, shopped on Fifth Avenue, dined with the rich and famous and was adored by...
Mom sighs loudly. Apparently she's not as tired of this conversation as I am. "You can't ignore him forever, Peyton. He's your father."
"Nope," I answer easily, pouring the last of the orange juice into a glass. "He's a cheating bastard, and I don't want anything to do with him."
"I'm well aware," she replies sternly, turning in her seat to face me. "But there are rules I have to follow, and it looks bad on me that he's had no contact with one of his children in two months."
"He abandoned us, cut us off," I insist, slamming my palms into the countertop. "He left, Mom. I'm not about to forgive him for that."
She shakes her head sadly. "I needed to get out of that city, Peyton, you know that. But your father could've stopped me from taking you and your brother with me. He has his family name, the money, the image. I wouldn't have stood a chance in court," she explains, setting down her cup and taking a slow breath as if to centre herself. "We both know I've never been the mother I should've been to you two."
I come around the counter to stand beside her. I look down at her with my best no-nonsense expression. "That doesn't matter. You're doing your best now, Mom. That's what counts. Jay and I are both doing well in school, we've got jobs. You've got a good job. You put food on the table for us and pay the utilities on time. You're a good mom."
Mom reaches out and clasps my hand tightly in her's. Either it's a trick of the light, or there are actually tears welling up in her eyes. I haven't really seen my mother cry since Pappou died. She smiles slightly, wiping at her eyes. "Please," she says, a pleading note in her voice. "Just give him a call, baby."
I don't remember the last time my mom called me baby. Probably because I was under six. But I can tell she's honestly concerned about what my father might do if I keep ignoring him.
And that fact makes me want to slap him in the face.
With a heavy sigh, I return her gesture with one of my own, squeezing her hand. "Fine," I concede. "I'll call him. But I'm not promising I'll be nice about it."
Her smile grows. "Thank you, Peyton."
I roll my eyes in my best attempt to brush off her mushy expression. "Yeah, yeah."
She stand up, giving me a hug and letting me know she's heading to bed early tonight. She takes her mug of now cold tea and heads out of the kitchen. Just as she starts to climb the stairs, I pop my head out of the doorway and call after her.
"Are collect calls still a thing?"
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