My son disowned me after I refused to sell my bookshop for his business dream, then a homeless girl walked in looking for work. What she told me uncovered the terrible secret he had hidden for years…
The bell over my bookshop door rang just as I was counting the last twenty dollars in the register. When I looked up, I saw a thin girl standing in the doorway with rain dripping from her hair and a backpack hanging from one shoulder by a broken strap.
She looked no older than sixteen. Her sneakers were torn. Her hands were red from the cold.
But it was not the way she looked that made my heart stop.
It was her face, the shape of her eyes, the small dimple in her left cheek, the stubborn little lift in her chin. She looked so much like my son that my hands went weak against the counter.
Then she asked in a shaking voice, “Ma’am, do you need help in this shop? I’ll do anything.”
Before I could stop myself, I whispered, “Who is your mother, and how old are you?”
The answer she gave me made the room tilt around me. What kind of secret had my own son buried for all these years?
My name is Eivelyn Parker. I was sixty-seven years old that winter, and I had spent most of my life believing that books could help people find the truth. But no book on my shelves had prepared me for the truth that walked into my shop that day.
The girl stood just inside the door, shivering as cold wind blew around her. She glanced behind her like she was scared someone had followed her.
I came around the counter slowly, still staring at her face.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “What did you say your name was?”
She swallowed hard. “Mia. Mia Carter.”
Carter. Not Parker. Not my son’s last name. Still, something in my chest tightened.
“And how old are you?” I asked.
She hesitated. “Seventeen.”
“Seventeen?”
My son had cut me off almost eighteen years ago. I gripped the edge of a bookshelf so hard my fingers hurt.
“Mia,” I said carefully, “who is your mother?”
Her eyes dropped to the floor. “Her name was Rachel Carter.”
Was.
That one word hurt more than the cold.
“Was?” I repeated softly.
“She died last spring,” the girl said. “Cancer.”
I put a hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
