Someone trying to break in

He couldn’t sleep.

At midnight he tossed the covers off and punched his pillow. At twelve-thirty, he stared at the sliver of light coming through his bedroom window and counted backward from fifty. At one o’clock, he swore and sat on the edge of the bed.

He wasn’t going to open the damn package.

Bella had left it on the front seat of his car when he’d dropped her off at her cabin. She’d looked so pleased with herself when she’d hopped out of the truck and waved goodbye.

The woman was enough to drive any man crazy just like she was Five years ago.

He thought about her lying in bed right now, that long, curvy body, her soft, silky skin. He imagined the feel of her breasts against his chest as he covered her body with his and pressed her into the mattress.

His fists tightened on the rumpled sheets. Frustrated, he decided he was better off thinking about the package than Bella Trump.

What could possibly be inside the shoebox-size parcel that would matter to him? Some pictures of people he’d never known? A few mementos that had belonged to a mother he never grow up to experience?
father who had died before he was even born? Or maybe a present, a bribe it even a time bomb.

He didn’t care if the Queen’s jewels were in that box. He wasn’t going anywhere but back to Liverpool.

With a sigh he dragged both hands over his scalp. He was going back to home to have the feel of home and the tortures of the memories the Blondie left.

Yanking on his jeans, he stumbled to the kitchen and turned on the light. He thought about a beer, but knew that wouldn’t be strong enough to cut the edge off the tension knotting his body.

There was a bottle of Johnny Walker in the cupboard. That seems to be the best option.

He pulled the bottle out of the cupboard, grabbed a glass, then sat at the kitchen table.

And stared at the package sitting ten inches away from him.

It was harmless in appearance. Brown paper and shiny packing tape; Miguel doubted it weighed more than one pound. The return address was handwritten in black pen. The writing was as feminine as it was formal and neat: “Mi Rodriguez. My son"

He broke the whisky label and poured himself a shot.

Outside, an owl hooted in the darkness. Inside, the clock over the stove ticked the seconds away.

Dammit to hell.

He snatched up the package, ripped off the paper, then opened the cardboard box.

It was filled with envelopes. Different sizes, different colors. The top envelope, yellowed with age, had the number one on it. The card inside was pale green, with a white kitten and black spotted puppy. “For Mi's First Birthday,” it read.

A child’s birthday card?

He opened the card, read the generic greeting-card poem inside, then the handwritten inscription. “For my son, where ever you might be. My love goes with you always. Mum.”

Miguel quickly glanced through the stack of envelopes. All of them were birthday cards. There were thirty-three.

He was thirty-three.

Bewildered, he stared at the box.

His mum, a woman he’d never met, who hadn’t even known if he was dead or alive, had bought him a birthday card every year for thirty-three years?

He downed the shot of whisky, then reached for the second card. There were circus clowns and animals hanging from a large number two. The handwritten note inside the card read, “You must be so big by now, and learning from grandpa too. I know you won't remember me you're just five when the accident happened"

He stared at the words, disbelieving. These were his birthday cards, each one of them meant for him.

The notes inside became longer with each consecutive card. Year five she asked about kindergarten, year seven she wondered about sports and music. Each year asked different questions about school or likes and dislikes, all of them were signed: “With love from Mum.”

Miguel smiled at number twelve. There was a photograph of a grinning orangutan on the front of the card, its big hairy hand holding a dozen brightly colored balloons. Inside, under the simple “Happy Birthday” wish, Carol wrote, “How grown-up you must be. A handsome young man to take care of Agatha. I miss sharing these years with you, but you are in my heart always. I can only pray that one day God will smile on me and bring us together.”

Confused, he stared at the stack of cards piled on the table and rubbed at the tightness inside his bare chest. He didn’t understand why did she do this, or why she had continued year after year, and couldn't come to find him herself.

He downed the lump in his throat with another shot of whisky, and unbidden, the thought of another woman, equally tenacious, came to mind. One considerably younger, one that had him in chaos since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.

Bella, with her smiling green eyes and sassy mouth. He remembered the kiss he’d given her when they're still married.

All the laughter, pains and jokes. Even now he could feel the soft press of her lips under his, he could still taste the sweetness of apricots.

Dammit, anyway!

He sent the cards flying with a sweep of his arm. She’d brought all this aggravation into his life.

Aggravation he didn’t need, and sure as hell didn’t want. No woman had given him sleepless nights before or intruded endlessly into his thoughts. No woman had ever left him wanting or tied him up in knots so tightly he couldn’t think straight.

He jumped, then swore when the phone in the living room rang. It had to be Ross. No doubt she was more than annoyed with him for not calling her, and the fact that it was almost two in the morning wouldn’t matter even remotely to her.

He grabbed the phone on the third ring. “Dammit, Ross, get off my back. I’ll call you when I’m good.”

“It’s not Ross,” a feminine voice whispered. “It’s me.”

“Bella?” His hand tightened on the phone. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, if you aren’t too busy, could you come over here?” There was a sharp intake of breath. “
I think there’s someone trying to break in the front door.”

Miguel's chest sank.