My heart raced as I waited for the clinic’s doctor to come back with my results.
My mother had warned me against this very thing. Her mother had been an open secret on the Southside. A lot of people already didn’t like my mother, Dana, because unlike them, she didn’t grow up there. She only moved to the Southside after she won a small settlement with the city. She grew up on the Westside.
My mother taught me not to end up like her—mistress to a pastor’s son, permanently in second place. I didn’t listen. I thought Derrick was different. He told me he loved me, and I loved him. Said we’d get married. That when he got on the pulpit, I’d be by his side. He said it didn’t matter if we had sex now because we were going to be together forever.
But now everything was different.
When I told Derrick I was late, he stopped taking my calls. He ignored me at church. I couldn’t tell Mama. Trina, my best friend, would judge me. I had no one.
The doctor came back and confirmed my worst fears: I was fifteen and pregnant.
—
The knock on the door was all too familiar.
I exhaled deeply as I opened the door without asking who it was. I knew the knock.
“Good morning, ma’am. So sorry to disturb you. I’m Officer Raymond Daniels. This is Officer Chrystine Winston. Are you Camille Waters?” Officer Daniels asked knowingly.
“My name is Camille Thomas now,” I corrected softly. “I’m recently married.”
“Congratulations, Mrs. Thomas. We hate to disturb you, but may we come in and ask you a few questions?” Officer Winston added politely.
I had no reason to be nervous. Not anymore. I was nearly fifty. My past life was more than thirty years behind me.
“Yes, of course. My apologies, Officers.” I invited them into our five-bedroom, six-bathroom home, guiding them to the satin sofa. Miriam, our part-time housekeeper, brought coffee.
They admired our family photos on the wall—over sixty, all newer than the last.
Officer Daniels spoke first. “You have a lovely home and family, Mrs. Thomas.”
“Thank you. Now, enough with the pleasantries. Call me Camille.”
“Thank you, Camille,” Officer Winston said. “Let me tell you why we’re here. We’re with the Not Forgotten division of the Jonesboro Police Department. We handle cold cases—murder, sexual assault, robbery.”
I folded my hands, trying to steady them. “I’m not sure how my name would come up in that kind of investigation.”
“It wasn’t your name,” Officer Daniels replied. “It was a relative of yours. A blood match came up in our case. We were hoping you could help.”
The room began to spin.
“Do you have children?” Officer Winston asked.
“Yes. Two. My daughter, Nia, and my son, Elijah.”
“How old are they?”
“Nia will be twenty-two next month. Elijah is seventeen. What is this about?”
They looked at each other.
“Any older sons? Maybe a nephew?” Daniels asked.
I could barely breathe.
“I gave up a son. For adoption. A closed adoption. No one knew I was pregnant. Times were different then.”
“How old would he be now?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Has he ever tried to contact you?”
“No. All I know is he was adopted when he was three days old by an older couple. Maybe in their fifties.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Thomas,” Officer Winston said, handing me a card. “If you remember anything else, let us know.”
I walked them out.
My son was in trouble.
And I didn’t even know his name.
—
On top of it all, I was sexually frustrated.
It’s one thing to deal with rehab. I’ve done that. Between psych wards and recovery homes, I’ve done the cycle more than once. But not being able to have sex too? That’s been the hardest part.
Maybe I should introduce myself. I’m Love.
Yeah. Love.
I know what you’re thinking—who names their kid that? Well, my mama was sixteen when she had me. Says she didn’t even know I was swimming around in there until her water broke. She named me after what she needed most. What she hoped I would carry. Love.
But my life? It was anything but that.
I always said I’d write a book. The closest I’ve come is this diary. The pages don’t judge. They don’t ask for receipts. They just listen.
—
Langston had always known he was adopted.
It wasn’t a secret. Elaine had told him when he was old enough to understand—somewhere between Saturday cartoons and puberty. She said his birth mother was young, and that she gave him up so he could have a better life. That she loved him enough to let him go.
He believed that. Mostly.
But something always tugged at the edge of his memory. Something unspoken.
He never explored it. Not deeply.
Until now.
Because the police had come.
And because someone said his DNA matched a cold case.
And because, for the first time, he wasn’t sure he could ignore the question anymore:
Who am I really?
—
“I had twins,” Camille said quietly, her hands trembling.
Marcus froze.
She stood by the window, looking out over the backyard, her voice steady but full of shame. “When I was fifteen. A boy and a girl. I gave them up.”
Marcus sat down slowly. “You’ve never told me this.”
“I couldn’t. I thought if I said it out loud, I’d lose everything I’d built. Everything we built.”
His silence filled the room like judgment.
“I was scared, Marcus.”
He finally spoke. “And now?”
“They found me,” she said. “Both of them. Langston and Love.”
Marcus didn’t move. Just stared at her.
“I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d see me differently.”
He looked away. “I do.”
She nodded. “I know.”
—
Camille met Langston at a small diner just off the highway.
He looked like Derrick. That was the first thing she noticed. The shape of his jaw. The set of his mouth. But there was something softer in his eyes. Something hers.
They sat across from each other, coffee cups between them, silence stretching.
“You’re her,” he said finally. “Camille.”
She nodded.
“I always thought I’d be angry,” Langston admitted. “But now I just feel… numb.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“You gave me up.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Her voice cracked. “Because I was fifteen. Because I was scared. Because no one protected me.”
Langston stared at her.
And then quietly said, “I want to know more.”
Camille exhaled. “Then let’s start there.”
—
Love sat on the steps of the halfway house, knees pulled to her chest, the sun dipping low behind her.
Jasmine slid beside her without a word, offering a joint. Love waved it off.
“You good?” Jasmine asked.
“No.”
They sat in silence.
“I met her,” Love said finally. “My birth mother.”
Jasmine blinked. “For real?”
Love nodded. “Camille. She’s… not what I expected.”
“Good or bad?”
“Both.”
“Are you gonna see her again?”
“I don’t know.”
Jasmine bumped her shoulder gently. “If you do, bring me. I wanna see who made the girl named Love.”
Love smiled. “You’re an idiot.”
Jasmine grinned. “But I’m your idiot.”
—
Camille stood outside the library, waiting.
Celeste stepped out, eyes locking with hers across the parking lot.
They hadn’t seen each other in thirty years.
“Camille,” Celeste said.
“I should’ve said something,” Camille whispered.
“You were a child. So was I.”
“I still carry it.”
Celeste nodded. “Me too.”
They stood in the quiet for a long moment.
“I want to make it right,” Camille said.
Celeste looked at her.
“Then say his name.”
Camille swallowed.
“Derrick.”
—
He went by Daniel Moore now.
Different name. Different town. Same silence.
He’d buried the past. Changed states. Avoided mirrors that looked too long.
But the past had a pulse.
And now, it was knocking.
He saw his face on the news before the knock came. “Former youth church leader accused in revived cold case.” He saw Camille in the background of the footage. Older. But still her.
When the officers came to his door, he didn’t run.
He just said, “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
—
[The story continues…]
