Camden (The Henchmen MC 18)

Even now, I could never picture her in a courtroom, voice raised, argument stubborn.

She'd never yelled at me, never lost her patience even when I went through a particularly fun-filled year of fit-throwing over every minor frustration.

She was a calm, reassuring presence always overflowing with love and patience. She would help me through my emotions, then bring me into the kitchen.

That was where she shined.

In her apron, in her kitchen, hands sifting, rolling, cutting, frosting.

Everything she made was pure sugar, sickly sweet.

Brownies, cookies, donuts, pies, cakes, sweet breads, homemade chocolate, caramel squares.

I always remember my grandfather tasting one of her newest creations, remarking that she had 'missed her calling' and should have opened a bakery instead of practicing law. To which she always reminded him that the only people she wanted to bring smiles to with her treats were sitting right there in front of her.

All I knew those first years of my life were warmth and love.

I never, ever remembered a single word being said about my stutter. Never did they correct me, scold me, make me insecure about speaking.

I was shuffled into speech therapy before I had hit school, but showed little to no progress.

But, again, you would never know it if there had ever been any disappointment on their parts.

They just took me as I was.

They loved me even if I wasn't perfect.

"S-s-school w-was h-h-hard," I admitted, letting my air rush out of my nose as I went on.

Everyone who was different got bullied in school. The little girl in my grade who was overweight, the boy with a birthmark taking up half his cheek, the kid from India who had an accent. We'd all gotten it from all angles, got our self-confidence decimated despite how hard our parental figures work to boost us back up again.

But their love saw me through.

Sweet treats and coddling with my Gram.

Learning how to be a man with my Pop.

My grandfather was who taught me how to love and respect women, how to mow the lawn, how to string the lights on the Christmas tree.

My grandmother taught me to enjoy the small things in life, to be in the moment, to hold on tight to those you loved.

Everything was good.

Great.

Beautiful.

Happy.

I thought nothing of it when my principal came into school two weeks after my ninth birthday, when he told me to gather my things, when he led me back down to the office.

I vaguely remember being a little excited, thinking maybe my grandmother was breaking me out of school early which she had done a few times in the past. A 'mental health day' she would call them, taking me to get fast food which she generally didn't let me eat, bringing me to the park.

I was trying to decide between a hamburger and nuggets - secretly hoping she might let me get both - when we walked into the office.

And my grandmother wasn't there.

Neither was my grandfather.

It was another woman entirely, someone I had never seen before, dressed in slacks and a blazer, her brown hair pulled back. Even as a kid, I knew a professional when I saw one.

But what made my feet stumble was the look in her eyes.

The sadness.

I didn't know how I knew.

But I knew.

I knew that everything was about to change.

And change it did.

What choice did the world have when two of the best people in it must have missed a gas leak coming from the dryer? When a sainted woman reached to turn on her oven to put some treat in, likely for me after school. And the whole house went up.

Taking the only people in the world I loved away.

And everything I had ever touched with them.

I didn't remember much those first days.

I was taken away. I was given a bed somewhere. I sat with a shrink and refused to talk. I was explained about foster care and trying to track down my mother or father to take care of me, or I would have to go into the system, hope someone would adopt me.

I don't know if I ever processed any of this.

All I remember in that time was a blessed numbness.

It was a few weeks later when my caseworker came back in, bubbly, smiling.

Somehow, that was what broke through my numbness.

It wasn't relief I felt, though, it was dread.

"S-s-she t-told me th-th-that s-she f-found m-m-my f-f-father."

I knew nothing about the man, aside from what I had overheard my grandparents saying about prom one night when I was supposed to be sleeping. I didn't know his name, what he looked like, what he had been doing for the past nine years of my life.

"He's so excited to take you in, get to know you better."

I didn't tell her that he didn't know me at all.

It didn't seem like I had any say in the matter anyway.