Chapter 2

After the divorce, my father packed up his life and moved to a more affluent city with Matthew. I was taken along, but not out of any sense of fatherly duty. My maternal grandmother, Rose, had insisted. She' d told him I could be useful, a live-in babysitter and maid for Matthew. The real plan, I learned later, was just to get me to the same city as my mother so he could hand me off once the custody battle was over.

The courtroom was cold and sterile. My parents, who couldn' t stand to be in the same room, were now just feet apart, their lawyers whispering in their ears. They fought viciously, not for me, but for Matthew. They listed his accomplishments, his needs, his bright future. I was a footnote, a bargaining chip.

The judge, a tired-looking man with graying hair, finally looked at me. It was just a formality, a box he had to check.

"Jocelyn, do you have a preference who you live with?"

I looked at my father, who was staring at Matthew. I looked at the empty space where my mother should have been. I felt nothing. A complete, hollow numbness.

"Who wants me?" I asked the judge, my voice flat.

The judge awarded custody to my father. It was a victory he didn' t want. The moment we left the courthouse, he was on the phone, making arrangements.

A week later, on a bitterly cold winter day, he drove me to a bus station. He pulled over to the curb, the engine still running. He didn' t get out.

He shoved a few crumpled bills into my hand.

"Your mother will be here soon. Don' t call me unless it' s an emergency. Actually, don' t call then either."

He didn' t look at me. He just put the car in drive and pulled away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with my small, tattered suitcase.

I waited. The sun set, painting the gray sky with streaks of orange and purple. The cold seeped into my bones. Every car that pulled up made my heart leap, but none of them were my mother' s.

Hours passed. It was dark now, the streetlights casting long, lonely shadows. I was shivering, my teeth chattering. Just as I was about to give up, to curl into a ball and let the cold take me, a pair of headlights washed over me.

It wasn' t my mother.

It was my Grandma Rose.

She got out of her old, beat-up car and rushed over to me. She didn' t say anything, just wrapped me in a hug that smelled like cinnamon and soap. She handed me a warm burger wrapped in greasy paper. I devoured it in seconds.

She took me back to her small, humble house in a different, equally poor town.

"Your mother is off finding work," she said, her voice gentle. "She' ll send for you soon."

But I soon discovered the truth. My mother didn' t want me. For the next three years, Grandma Rose raised me. She used her meager social security checks and the money she made collecting cans to buy me clothes and books, always telling me they were "gifts from your mom."

I found her secret stash one day, a small tin box filled with receipts for cheap toys and secondhand clothes, and a pile of returned, unsent letters to my mother. The illusion shattered, but in its place, a fierce, protective love for my grandmother grew in my heart. She was the only one who had ever truly wanted me.