Page 1 of Grasp The Moment

Prologue

My world is crashingdown in slow motion.

In one fell swoop, the woman that I’ve watched take on the world and make it her oyster—iscrushingmine.

“You’re just not ready, Derek. How many times must I tell you the answer is ‘no’? Do I need to shout it from the rooftops? Bang on my chest like a caveman?!No.” She slews, her words like acid as they hit me, breaking down the confidence that I had coming into today’s late lunch.

“Mamá… But if you’d explain why—” I try, only to be met with her hand slicing through the air, a fiery look in her deep brown eyes.

The same eyes that were once a source of comfort and joy for me have grown distant and angry these past few years.

I sigh, my shoulders slumping.

I’ve fucked up, I know I have.

What was supposed to be a lunch to discuss my daughter’s big recital tonight has turned into an argument, and I’m going to be fucking late for the recital at this rate.

My mother dropped off Delilah, my daughter,at the theater where her recital will be held this morning, while I worked on a bit of business. Since becoming a single father at seventeen, my mom has always been my rock. She’s helped me every step of the way with Deli, whether with babysitting her while I studied, or enrolling her in a dance class to allow me to get work done—she’salwaysbeen there for me.

Which is why I can’t possibly fathomwhothe woman sitting in front of me is.

Always clad in red lipstick and her signature pearls, my mother is a nurturer. She’s warm like a beacon of comfort.

Right now? She’s a fuckingcategory 10hurricane.

Taking a sip of my sparkling water, I suppress a groan as her lioness-like eyes cut to me.

“Mijo?1, you asked me this before, and I told you the same thing that I’m saying now. No, you may not have your inheritance. You’re not ready, and you’renotresponsible enough,” she says, her thick southern accent in full swing.

I scoff at her words.

Not responsible?

Checking my watch, I suppress a groan before I look up at her.

“I am themostresponsible person there is! I don’t go out, I don’t drink, I don’tdate. I have akidfor crying out loud, and you say I’m not responsible?!” I gape at her, my anger rising as she chuffs.

“My point exactly—you have a child. How can I trust you withthatamount of money when you have a kid at your age? No wife. No house. You live in an apartment inMaryland, Derek. You have no assets other than thatdeathcar—and your hair. The tattoos… All of it. You don’t even have arealjob.Dios mío…” She takes a sip of her champagne, the vein in her temple throbbing.

My tongue pokes in the corner of my cheek, head tilting as I stare my mother down.

“You have no right to bring up Delilah. I have done nothing but be an excellent father to her?—”

She cuts me off, her words sharp, “You shouldn’t be a fatherat all—notat this age. A baby, Derek? Out of wedlock?”

And there she goes again.

My mom loves Delilah; she always has, but she has also always been very adamant about one thing.

She believes that I shouldn’t have had a kid at seventeen.

Delilah, my beautiful sunshine, is the product of what was thought to be love between two children. Her mother and I were high school sweethearts, giving ourselves to one another. It wasn’t until she became pregnant with Delilah that I learned of her true nature.

She didn’t invite me to Delilah’s birth; instead, she left my newborn daughter on my mother’s doorstep, the parental rights signed over.

No note.

Just Delilah.