139
After Mr. Caldwell, the seemingly only loyal worker of my father, tracked me down to where I worked at a rundown diner in Brooklyn, he made sure to pass on both Dominic’s parents’ and my parents’ wealth to me as the only survivor of both families. At first, I was reluctant to take the money. No, not because I was well-off. After Dominic left, died, as I’d thought, I moved out of our little apartment. Too many memories in such a small space, suffocating me, drowning me. Before I left, I found a large stack of dollar bills in the back of his closet. He must have kept it hidden, probably winnings from one of his races.
With that money, I found another place, something small but decent. A one-bedroom apartment in Queens, nothing fancy, nothing that stood out. Just enough to be considered livable. The walls were thin, the water pressure was terrible, and the heating barely worked in the winter, but it was a roof over my head. The floors creaked, and the pipes groaned whenever someone used the shower, but at least it was mine. A place where Dominic’s laughter didn’t echo in every corner, where I didn’t wake up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
A month after settling in, I found out I was pregnant. Pregnant and mourning a man who was supposed to be the father of my child, a man I was told had died in a car race, his body burned beyond recognition. At first, I thought about keeping the baby. I tried. I picked up jobs where I could, anything that would put food on the table and save for the child growing inside me.
The first job I took was waitressing at another diner, but the hours were long, and the pay was barely enough to cover rent. The manager was a creep, always looking a little too long, standing a little too close. My feet ached from standing all day, my back screamed in pain, and the nausea from pregnancy made it unbearable. I quit after three weeks.
Then I tried working as a cashier at a 24-hour convenience store. It was simple enough—scan, bag, take cash, repeat. But the night shifts were dangerous. Drunks, junkies, men with wandering hands. I once had a guy try to grab me over the counter. The security guard did nothing. I left after that.
Next, I cleaned houses. It paid better, and the work was straightforward. Scrub, mop, dust, repeat. But the chemicals made me sick, and after a few months, bending over with a growing belly became impossible.
After that, I worked at a call center, cold-calling people to sell things they didn’t want. People yelled at me, hung up on me, cursed at me. Sitting in a stiff chair for hours on end with a headset pressing into my skull gave me migraines. My patience ran out, and so did my time there.
Finally, I took a job stocking shelves at a grocery store. The pay was the worst of them all, but at least I didn’t have to talk to people much. I lifted boxes, sorted cans, and tried to ignore the aching in my lower back. Then came the night I nearly collapsed from exhaustion. My boss told me to ‘pick up the pace’ while I was six months pregnant, carrying a child I wasn’t sure I could keep. That was the last straw.
I sat on the floor of my apartment that night, looking at the few baby clothes I had bought. A tiny onesie, soft blankets, a stuffed rabbit. I ran my hands over them, my chest tightening. I had wanted this baby. I had dreamed of raising them, of giving them the love I never had. But love wasn’t enough.
I had no money. No job. No security. I went from being the daughter of one of the richest Mafia billionaires to being a pauper in one night. I didn’t even know where my next meal was coming from half the time. How was I supposed to take care of a child? How was I supposed to be a mother when I could barely take care of myself?
And then there was the worst part, the part that made my stomach churn and my throat tighten until I thought I might suffocate under the weight of it. If I had this baby, I would see Dominic in them. Every single day. In their eyes. In their smile, the same crooked smirk that always made my heart stumble. In their laugh, the kind that would echo in my chest, shake me to my core, and leave me gasping for air, just like he did.
A ghost.
A living, breathing ghost.
A reminder of everything I lost, everything I would never have again. Every morning, I would wake up to a tiny piece of him, and it would gut me. It would tear me apart from the inside out, bit by bit, day by day. It wouldn’t heal me, wouldn’t fill the void. No, it would make it deeper. Wider. An endless, gaping hole where my life used to be.
And what kind of mother would that make me? What kind of mother would I be if I looked at my child and felt like I was drowning? If I held them and instead of warmth, I felt grief clawing up my spine?
I didn’t know if I could survive that. I didn’t know if I could survive having my child grow into Dominic while I longed for him, while I saw him in my dreams, while I could still taste his name on my lips.
And God, sometimes, in the quiet, I could still smell him. It was the cruelest trick of all.
I would be lying in bed, curled up, hollowed out from crying, and then, just for a second, would smell him. That mix of cologne and cigarettes, something dark and familiar, something that once meant home. It would hit me so suddenly, so violently, that my breath would hitch and my body would stiffen, waiting. Waiting for him to walk through the door. Waiting to feel his rough hands on my skin, his lips on my neck, his voice in my ear.
But he never came.
Months after months I waited, he never showed up. I had thought he was truly dead. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t bring a piece of him into a world where he no longer existed. So that night, tears burned my eyes as I clutched the little onesie in my hands. My baby deserved better than this. Better than me. I had spent too many nights starving myself to make sure I could afford rent. Too many nights wondering how I would buy diapers, how I would even make it to tomorrow. I had spent too many mornings throwing up bile because there was nothing left in my stomach, too many days dragging my feet to jobs that barely paid enough to survive. I had spent too much time in the mirror, looking at a girl I didn’t recognize, a girl who once had everything and now had nothing.
I thought about the child growing inside me. About the nights they would go hungry because I couldn’t afford food. About the cold winters with no heat. About the look in their eyes when they asked why we had nothing when once, I had everything.
And then there was the worst part.
The part that clawed at my insides, made my stomach twist and ache. The part that made my chest tighten until I couldn’t breathe.
If I had this baby, I would see Dominic in them.
Every single day.
In their eyes. In their smile. In the way they moved, the way they laughed. I would wake up every morning and stare into a face that reminded me of everything I lost, everything I could never have again.
I couldn’t do it.
I wasn’t strong enough.
So I made a choice.
Those were the reasons why I'd given my baby away.
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