I watched him carefully during those visits, looking for signs that this was temporary enthusiasm that would fade. That the novelty of fatherhood would wear off once the guilt subsided and he’d drift away like so many absent parents do.
But weeks turned into months, and he kept showing up with the same dedication.
He learned her different cries—the hungry cry that started soft and escalated, the tired cry that was more of a whimper, the “I just need to be held” cry that broke your heart. He figured out that she liked being bounced gently but hated being rocked side to side. He discovered completely by accident that she would fall asleep faster if he sang to her, even though he couldn’t carry a tune to save his life and knew maybe three complete songs.
He was becoming her father. Not the father I’d imagined during my pregnancy—the one who would be there from the beginning, who would rub my swollen feet and assemble the crib and hold my hand during labor. But a father nonetheless. One who was learning and trying and showing up even when it was inconvenient.
When the Lies Caught Up
About six weeks after our daughter was born, I received a long text message from Madeline Brooks. My first instinct was to delete it without reading. To refuse to engage with someone who had caused so much damage. But curiosity got the better of me, as it often does.
The message was a masterpiece of manipulation disguised as sincere apology. She was “so sorry” for how things had turned out, she said. She’d been “scared” and “made mistakes” but she’d only lied because she “loved Ethan so much” and was “terrified of losing him.” She hoped I could “understand where she was coming from” and that maybe we could “talk it through like mature adults.”
She ended by saying she was “willing to be a part of the baby’s life” if that would help Ethan and me “move forward in a healthy way.”
I stared at that message for a long time, reading it twice to make sure I hadn’t misunderstood the audacity of what she was suggesting.
Then I deleted it without responding. Some people don’t deserve closure. They deserve silence. They deserve to sit with the consequences of their actions without the comfort of knowing they’ve been forgiven or understood.
Some chapters of your life don’t need a neat ending where everyone comes to understanding and parts as friends. Some chapters just need to end. Period. Clean and final.
I mentioned the text to Ethan during one of his visits, mostly to gauge his reaction and see where his head was.
His jaw tightened visibly. “She’s been trying to contact me too. Showing up at my office building. Calling from different phone numbers. Leaving notes on my car. I finally had to threaten a restraining order to get her to stop.”
continued on next page
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
