Page 106 of The Taskmaster
The door opened and a middle-aged, slim woman with dark hair stood on the step, frowning. She went to speak but nothing came out, and her mouth fell open as she stared at me.
Then her eyes brimmed with tears, and she gasped, “You look just like him,” before covering her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook with silent tears, and I heard her whisper, “Please Lord, don’t do this to me.”
I didn’t speak. I wanted to give her chance to compose herself. To take it all in.
After a few seconds that felt like forever, she moved her hands away from her face, and in a low, vulnerable voice, she asked, “Who are you?”
I stayed where I was, keeping my distance as I said, “My name is Isaiah James. But I think you know me as Enzo.”
Her legs buckled beneath her as her sobs broke free. She couldn’t contain them any longer, and I lurched forward, putting my arms around her to help her.
“It’s not...” She sobbed, struggling to speak. “You’re not... you can’t be.”
I lifted her in my arms and ushered her to the door.
“I think we need to sit down for this conversation.”
I walked with her into her house, closing the front door behind us, and leading her into her cosy little living room. The TV was on, but I took her remote control from the arm of the sofa and switched it off. She sat down on her sofa, and I sat next to her. And as I did, she glanced at me and gasped. From that moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off me.
“I know you look like him...” She sniffed, and I took a tissue from a box on her coffee table and passed it to her. “But my eyes play tricks on me. I see him everywhere.”
“Who do you see?” I asked.
“My Michael.”
I sat still as she dabbed her eyes, and then I asked, “Who is Michael?”
Her eyes dipped for a second before she lifted them and replied, “My husband. The father of my baby.”
“Can you tell me about your baby?” I asked, and she wept, then told me the same story I’d heard from Quinn’s traitorous mouth. But the part about her being murdered was lies. Lies meant to torment me further. To keep me away from the one thing I’d always dreamed of.
When she finished, I took her hand in mine and said, “You were right to mistrust him. He did lie. I didn’t die. But I only found out you existed recently, when you sent that email to Adam Noble.”
She shook her head in disbelief, but then she reached out and put her hands on my face, and my heart broke when she said, “Is it really you? Are you my baby boy?”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak. My throat was thick, and my voice had withered to nothing.
“Where have you been for all these years?” she gasped.
“Dreaming of you,” I managed to reply, and her sobs intensified, as her face crumbled under the weight of it all.
We sat for hours talking about what had happened on the night she’d given birth. I didn’t tell her about my life before Abigail. She had been through enough; she didn’t need to know her baby was ripped from her womb and thrown into hell. She’d lived long enough in a hell of her own. But today was the start of something new. The past didn’t matter anymore. We had a future, my mother and me.
I told her I had a family of my own now and took my phone out. She sat close to me, her leg touching mine as I showed her a photo of me and Abigail.
“She’s beautiful,” she remarked, touching the screen with her fingertip. “Her hair is stunning. Look at all those curls. And you look so in love.”
“She’s everything to me,” I exclaimed, then I swiped to the photo of my son and told her, “And this is our son... your grandson, Enzo.”
She covered her mouth with her hands as she started to cry again. Then she took the phone from my hands and held it like it was the most precious thing she’d ever held. She glanced from the phone, to me, then back again, and with her voice cracking with emotion, she said, “My baby grew up to be a beautiful man, and now you’ve brought another baby into my life. Another baby Enzo. I can’t wait to hold him in my arms.”
“I’m so sorry it took so long to find you,” I told her.
“I’m sorry I ever let you go,” she replied, and then she leaned forward and hugged me. I hugged her back. I hugged my mother for the first time ever, and a little piece of my fractured, wretched heart felt like it fused together.
Eventually, she pulled away, wiped her tears and said, “I knew when they put the other baby in my arms that it wasn’t you. I just knew. Call it mother’s instinct or whatever, but I prayed every day that this moment would come.”
“And now it has.” I paused. “Can I ask you about my father? What kind of man is he?”
