Wasn't Expecting You

A Hundred Questions

I had a hundred questions and I didn't even know where I could start to get answers. Certainly not from my mother, because she was dead.

Deceased.

Like actually gone, not just dead to me anymore, dead to the whole world. Ceasing to exist. No longer alive. Kicked the bucket.

I raided my memories for any of a happy time, a time she told me she loved me, a time she acted like a mother. All that came up was the image of her frothing at the mouth, needle marks in her arm, and the scowl she gave me all through my childhood when dad would tell me he loved me, as though it wasn't possible for him to love us both.

I wondered how she could have another child and I not even know, she never even mentioned it, not even while high and unsure of what she was saying.

Six years old. Six years of having a half brother that I didn't even know existed. I did the math, I was in foster care by then. What I didn't know was if she was already pregnant when I found her nearly dead, or was it after I was gone. Did she bring someone else into my fathers bed? Was he even ok, or did he have permanent disabilities from a mother addicted to heroin through her pregnancy.

I wondered where he was. I could only assume  he was put straight into the foster system from birth. Was he still there, being passed from home to home or had he been adopted? Was he happy with a real family or did he feel eternally miserable? Forever wondering about the parents who left him behind.

Did he look like me? I had my mother's eyes and nose, did he? Or perhaps he looked like his father, whoever that may be. I doubt my mother even knew.

Sanders. Beau Sanders. She had given him her maiden name. Makes sense I suppose, Walters was dads name and he was most definitely not my fathers son. I wonder if he knew who his mother was, or that he has a half sister. Six years old sounds like the right age to start asking questions and wondering about who you are. If he knew about me, would he want me to find him? Do I want to find him?

I suppose that's the most important question of them all. This could change my life. Who am I kidding, it already has changed my life.

I'm not ready, nor willing to be a parent to a six year old, or any child for that matter. I worked too damn hard to get where I am and throwing parental responsibilities in would jeopardise everything. It's not just me, it's Joey too. Decisions I make, impact on him too. They affect our relationship. Would he stick by me, take on a child if that's what it came to? Could I even expect that from him? I don't think so, not if I'm not willing to myself.

What good would meeting him do, if I was just going to leave him behind again. My own selfish curiosity could do more harm than good. But then if he is struggling in the system, struggling to find his place in the world, his happiness, then who am I to deny him his only real family? If it were me, I would want to know I had a sibling.

I had a hundred questions.

"Hey," Joey said softly, handing me a cup of tea.

I looked up at him, smiling gratefully as I accepted the mug. "Hi."

"How you doing? You've been up here alone for a while."

He was right. After my panic attack I retreated to Joey's room, to our room. I still wasn't used to saying that. I have been sitting on the brown leather couch in the sitting area of our suite just thinking. Processing. Or trying to.

"I don't know Joey. I don't know what to do, I don't know how, or where to begin, I just don't know. It's... a lot."

"You don't have to decide anything right away. You don't even have to talk about it until you are ready. But I'm here, Harper and Ali, my parents too. We are all here for you and we can all help you. You aren't alone at all."