When I was a little girl, I saw my father break down for the first time when I was nine years old. He told me about the money he stole from his parents once to buy action figures. He told me about the time he went to Amsterdam to cheat on my mother. He told me how lonely he had always felt as a child, and at nine years old, I didn’t understand what was happening.
Days later, my mum told me what had happened. She said he’d suffered a psychotic break. That was the first time I knew that he wasn’t like other dads. That should have been my sign, really, that he would never truly care. Over the years, he suffered more breakdowns. My contact with him lessened until there was barely anything there, and then he would snap and demand to see me. He would be put in a secure ward for a little while, to get him back on his medication. I knew that the only times he ever remotely cared about me were when he wasn’t in the right frame of mind.
Two years ago, he accused my mum of being unfaithful to him, of having me with another man and tricking him into thinking that I was his child. I didn’t understand what would make him think that way. Only then my mum explained to me that actually, she hadn’t be unfaithful because they weren’t together at the time, but she had met someone else.
In the few months that they had split up before my conception, she had met a man. A cop from the United States. He’d only been here on holiday, but had got into a bar brawl and wound up in A & E, eventually landing in Mum’s care. She’d nursed him back to health and sent him on his way. Two weeks later, they met again on a girl’s night out with her friends. Things had become heated between them and that led to me. Possibly.
The possibly comes in a couple of weeks later, when the cop had flown back to his home. There was a break-in at my home. Mum had caught the guys in the act and my ‘father’ had decided to stay with her to keep her safe. It wasn’t long after that when she found out she was pregnant. Not knowing for sure who the father was, and with no way to contact the cop, she just rolled with it. Allowed my dad to believe that I was his child, partly so that she could believe it too.
After my dad decided I wasn’t his, I naturally demanded a DNA test, and that brought to light everything that had happened. I was no longer the child of Melody and Jack Moore. No, I was the offspring of Melody Moore and Sergeant Denny Jackson of the NYPD’s Organized Crime Control Bureau. My year was then split between England and America to allow me time with both parents. I figured life would end up being pretty simple after that. Until I met Lukas Taylor. Then everything went tits up … again.