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“How was the party at Sasha’s sorority?” dad, Evan, asks.
Every muscle in my body automatically draws tight. I shouldn’t have said anything, but he kept pestering me and he always frets about my lack of a social life so I mentioned Sasha’s party––I threw him a bone. Which, I see now, was a huge mistake because he won’t let it go.
“Okay. I guess.”
His dark blond brows come together as he examines me. “You guess? Come on, you can do better than that.”
Sigh. This is how it starts. As far as helicopter dads go, he’s a military grade Black Hawk stealth.
“Sasha m-met a guy she liked and kind of left me to fend for myself. So, you know––” I shrug, not bothering to finish. My parents know how hard it is for me talk to anyone, let alone strangers. “D-don’t say anything to aunt Donna,” I say to him. Donna being his sister and him not knowing how to keep a secret to save his life.
Case in point, he makes a face. I know he’s just being protective, but it’s too much. He doesn’t realize how incapable it makes me look.
“I m-mean it. Do not say anything to her, Daddy.”
“Fine,” he promises way too quickly. Which is why I’m fifty percent certain he won’t keep that promise.
The snort coming across the table has me glancing up to meet my dad’s brown eyes. He’s watching me over the rim of the coffee cup. They crinkle on the sides as he smiles around the cup.
Even though I was a surrogate baby, I don’t resemble either one of my parents. Before having me, they decided never to do a DNA test. Which means either one of them could be my biological father. All I know is that I’ve been told I look a lot like my birthmother.
A woman I’ve never met.
A woman who wants nothing to do with me.
“Are they coming over for Thanksgiving or are we going to their place?” I ask, eager to change the subject.
“Our place.”
The mention of our home brings up the sad fact that it won’t be a typical holiday.
“I miss Igg.” We had to put my dog to sleep this summer. Being at school and away from home has tempered the blow, but going home and seeing it empty is going to be awful.
Iggy was basically my only friend for years. My speech impediment was so bad that my parents got him as a therapy dog for me when I was eight. The trainer named him Ziggy but I couldn’t pronounce the Z so everyone just starting calling him Iggy.
“We all do––” Jay says, and my parents share a look. Dad runs a hand over his closely-cropped salt and pepper hair, and sighs. “but he was in pain, sweet pea.”
That scrapes my nerves. As if I don’t know what the life expectancy of a large Labradoodle is. “I have s-something to talk to you about…”
Both of them freeze. The deer in the headlight expression is a familiar one. Every time I broach the subject, I see it on them.
“I want to meet her.”
“Honey––”
“I d-don’t care that she’s not what you think I deserve. Or…or that she’s not up to your parental s-standards––which are extremely high, by the way. I just…I-I need to see her…in person.”
I can’t explain it any other way. It’s not like I expect us to have an Oprah moment. It’s not like I expect her to see me, come to her senses, and throw her arms around me. And who knows––maybe I’ll see her, scratch that itch, and never think of her again. It could happen. But I need to meet her. It’s an itch that hasn’t lessened in five years.
“She never wanted to be a mother,” Daddy says jumping right into his usual explanation. “She has no children of her own––I mean––” he sighs tiredly, “you know what I mean. None that she raised.”
“So that’s a no,” I answer for them, more than a little frustrated.
“It would be a breech of our agreement, Honey,” Dad, Jay, explains.
“The new clothes really suit you,” Evan segues in an attempt to distract me. “You look beautiful, honey.”
I’m wearing a white t-shirt that hugs my curves and frayed designer boyfriend jeans. My long, straight red hair is in a high ponytail, and for once, I’m wearing a little makeup. All courtesy of Zoe.
“Daddy stop. My friend t-took me shopping. It’s not a big deal.”
He’s been trying to take me shopping for the better part of the last eight years and I refused so it kinda is a big deal. I just don’t need a therapy session from him right now.
“I’m just going to say what I need to say––” he continues, no less determined to speak his piece.
My other parent sighs, his expression long suffering. “Babe––”
The subject of my weight has always been a hard one for my father to handle. He’s super fixated on being supportive and at the same time terrified to say the wrong thing. The consequence of which is that the conversation always ends with me feeling forced to reassure him that I’m fine––even when I’m not entirely fine. It’s exhausting.
