Most importantly, how could I have missed something as significant as procreating a child?
As soon as we arrive at my apartment, an overwhelming urge to sit her down on a chair and demand answers bubbles inside me. However, it takes only a fleeting moment to remember this is a child who has been on her own for who knows how long. What she needs is protection, love, and understanding.
“Have you eaten anything?” My voice is tinged with concern as I shed my jacket and hang it on the hook next to the door.
“A few bites of the sandwich the nice lady in the coffee shop bought for me.” Her mumble is barely audible.
I nod, my heart aching for her, and head to the kitchen. “Let me get you something to eat.”
She hesitates before putting down her backpack and then pulls out a worn, flowery notebook. Carefully, she extracts a crumpled paper and says, her voice shaky, “I just need you to sign this, please. After that, I’ll leave.”
Kenzington is determined, and I can sense her desperation to get this over with and leave. She’s making it simple for me.
I could play this in many different ways, beginning with promises to give her a home and everything she’s never had and always wanted. But before I can entertain any of those thoughts, I need to figure out why she is here and who sent her.
“Why do you want me to sign that?” I question, taking the paper from her trembling hands.
A smirk threatens to appear on my face as I examine the document. There is nothing legal about this paper. She probably created it on her computer and decided it’s good enough to… Why does she want the freedom to become an adult?
Someone should tell her that the obligations you carry after becoming one are exhausting. I miss those years when I didn’t have to make decisions, the time before I became responsible for an entire family.
“This should prevent me from going into foster care,” she answers, her voice barely audible.
“So are you part of the system?” I inquire, my concern for her growing as I try to piece together her situation.
She shuffles her feet, her gaze focused on the wooden floor as if it holds all the answers. “Just sign it, please. Cami said it might be the only way to avoid the worst.” Kenzington looks at me after mumbling the last two words.
The raw pain in her eyes and the crushing weight of her circumstances resonate within me, and I realize I can’t just abandon her to her fate. If I want to help her, I need more information. “And Cami is?”
“No one.”
“A friend? Your foster mother? The neighbor?” I stop and then ask, “Where have you been for the past… how old are you?”
Kenzington looks at me and crosses her arms.
“Kid, I want to help you, but it’s hard when you’re just giving me this paper that won’t hold up in court. You’ll still end up in foster care. Why don’t I help you prevent it?”
She narrows her gaze, studying me. Clearly, she doesn’t trust me. “Will you really help me?”
I nod. “It’s a promise. Let’s start from the beginning. How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” she answers.
“And where is your mother?”
She shrugs. “We don’t know. Cami tried to call her after Nonna died. The last thing I heard is that her number is now disconnected.”
“Who is Cami?” I insist.
Her lips tighten.
“In order to help you, I have to learn more about you. I can’t just go to my lawyer and tell him to process emancipation when I don’t even know the basics,” I explain, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible, despite the emotional turmoil churning inside me. “We have to confirm that I’m, indeed, your father.”
She retrieves another piece of paper from her notebook and unfolds it, revealing her birth certificate—from the state of Colorado. Kenzington Opal Balsamo. My name is there, alongside Elsie Balsamo’s. But for the life of me, I can’t recall ever meeting someone by that name. She was twenty, and I was twenty-four. It’s around the same time I went back to study part-time.
Did I meet Elsie on campus? Was it here?
“Listen, I’m not a lawyer, but I’m sure we still need to establish my paternity. Just because a paper says I’m your dad, it doesn’t mean I am,” I explain while rubbing my chin. “A DNA test will take at least a week.”
“We don’t have a week.” Kenzington’s chin quivers. “What if they take me away tomorrow?”
“You’re with me. No one will take you away,” I say firmly.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I see Gatsby’s name on the screen, seeking an update.
Lysander: Do you remember a woman named Elsie Balsamo?
Gatsby: Nope. What’s going on?
Lysander: I’m trying to figure it out. Can you or Aslan cover for me at the vineyard? I need to deal with Kenzington.
Gatsby: And who is Kenzington?
Lysander: My daughter.
Gatsby: She’s yours?
Lysander: I feel it in my gut. Though, I’ll have Derek or Finn search for the mother to confirm everything.
Gatsby: We’ll cover for you. Keep us updated.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and, with a heavy sigh, decide to focus on Kenzington. I busy myself heating a can of chicken noodle soup, preparing a sandwich, and rinsing some fresh fruit.
I set the food on the small table. “Why don’t you eat while we continue discussing the ways I can help you?”
Kenzington wastes no time. I have to remind her to slow down.
“Besides the sandwich Enid bought for you, when was the last time you ate?”
She shrugs, her mouth full. “A few days? I didn’t think the bus ticket to San Francisco would be that expensive. I didn’t have much money when I arrived, and it took me a while to figure out how to get to Paradise Bay.”
“Where did you get the money from?” I probe, my brow furrowing.
Kenzington’s lips press together, her eyes flickering with a mixture of fear and defiance.
“I can’t help you if you withhold information from me.”
“I might’ve stolen Cami’s wallet,” she confesses. “She had very little cash. I didn’t know her credit card didn’t have enough credit or that her debit card would just have enough for the bus ticket.”
“Who is Cami?” I ask, my patience wearing thin.
“No one important. I’m sure she’s glad I’m no longer her problem.”
“So she was your foster mother?”
Her nostrils flare. “No.”
“How long have you been in the foster system?”
“I haven’t, but I heard the social worker say that I was going to be placed soon if Cami didn’t find a job.”
Anger simmers beneath the surface. So the irresponsible woman in charge of my daughter is to blame. She’s at the top of my list of people who will pay for messing with my child’s life. And again, where is her mother in all this?
“You need to explain to me who Cami is,” I say, hoping she’ll give me a last name and more information. “How long have you been under her care?”