Prodigal Daughter
Copyright© 2025 by DB86
Chapter 9
Marshall smiled and sipped his coffee, trying like hell to sound reassuring, confident, and paternal. Damned if he knew how. Both of his parents had been alcoholics. When he was ten, Social Services had found them passed out drunk. Marshall had missed school for three days. There was nothing to eat in the house, and everything—including him—was beyond filthy. He had shown the caseworkers all the places his parents hid their cans and bottles.
Social Services sent him to live with his grandparents, and he never saw his parents again.
Justin walked into the kitchen, still yawning, taking Marshall out of his mind.
“Good morning. What do you want for breakfast?”
His son just shrugged—his go-to response. Marshall reminded himself that this was going to take time. He was a stranger to the boy. Everyone in Justin’s life had failed him.
“What about some eggs?”
Justin eyed Marshall’s plate with hearty suspicion.
“Do I have to have them like yours?”
“No. I could scramble them if you want. Don’t you like sunny-side up?”
Justin shook his head vigorously.
“They look like eyeballs.”
Marshall grinned. “Okay, no eyeballs for breakfast. Scrambled coming right up.”
He stood and gently touched Justin’s shoulder as he passed him on the way to the fridge. It pleased him to see Justin looking clean and healthy this morning. The boy’s life hadn’t exactly been a bowl of cherries.
The night before, Marshall hadn’t slept a second. He’d paced, worried, and planned until finally, at dawn, he’d started the coffeemaker.
There was the farm to tend to, of course. But now he had a son—and a million things to take care of in the short term—bedroom furniture, a pediatrician, a checkup. The DNA test could wait a few more days. The truth was, he was scared of what the results might say.
In the meantime, he had to look into the legal steps to ensure full custody—and childcare.
In the fall, Justin would go to school. But for the time being, there was no one to watch him when Marshall worked the farm or did the part-time jobs that helped pay the bills. His grandmother wasn’t the right choice. She was old-school and too into “tough love.”
“After breakfast, I’m going to do some laundry,” he said, pulling out a frying pan. “So why don’t you give me that hat you’re wearing? I’ll wash it with your new stuff.”
Marshall was fairly certain there were lice breeding in that hat.
Justin looked down, ashamed. His cheeks flushed. “I can’t take it off. I ... I don’t have any hair,” he whispered.
Startled, Marshall dropped the pan and turned. “Wha—what do you mean?” He stepped toward Justin, who flinched like he expected to be hit.
Marshall froze in his tracks, not wanting to scare him.
Justin touched his hat, clearly panicked. “I can’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” He leaned back against the table, clutching his stuffed lion like a shield. The cap was clearly another one.
Marshall took a cautious step, then another, and knelt in front of his son. He wanted to cry for the first time in his adult life.
He hadn’t felt this gutted since he caught his wife with those two assholes.
“Why did your hair fall out, Justin?” His voice was soft and calm. He was terrified it might be cancer. He couldn’t lose the boy—not after just finding him.
“The doctor the ladies took me to said it was stress. He said maybe it’ll come back when I’m older.”
While he felt some relief it wasn’t cancer, the answer brought its own storm of guilt and grief. How could he ever make this right?
Marshall swallowed hard and crossed his heart. “I won’t tell anyone, Justin. I promise.” He reached out and saw Justin wince again. Freezing for a moment, he continued and gave his son’s shoulder a light squeeze.
“Let me get breakfast started. You must be starving.” He turned back to the stove, trying to suppress the panic zipping through his chest like too much caffeine. This would work out. It had to. He just had to be patient.
The front door flew open as he cracked the first egg.
“Marshall?” his grandmother called. Of course, she’d heard. Gossip traveled faster than wildfire in Middletown.
“I’m in the kitchen, Grammy,” he called. He glanced at Justin, who stood frozen, his stuffed lion dangling from one leg.
“She’s my grandmother, Justin. Bet she heard about you and wants to meet you.”
Marshall had asked his grandmother to wait a few days to visit, to allow Justin adjust to his new situation.
Bonnie Tucker entered the room like a semi-truck on an empty highway. Justin flinched. Marshall turned off the stove and moved to his son’s side.
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