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“It happened gradually,” he had resumed quietly. “So gradually I almost didn’t realize, except I think at least part of me did.” He’d looked down, seeming unable to meet her eye. “I just didn’t want to acknowledge it.”
“What happened?”
“I spent less time with Maggie. I—I wasn’t a proper father to her.” He’d swallowed audibly, his throat working. “Not that I would have seen it like that. But I didn’t like having her in my flat—she didn’t like it. It wasn’t familiar, I didn’t have the right toys or food even if I tried to… basically, it wasn’t home. I wasn’t Mummy. So I started taking her out to places she’d like, soft play places or McDonald’s on a Sunday afternoon because she had ballet on Saturday, and she wanted Sara to take her to that.” He’d sighed. “It was always something. I felt like I had to fit in around a busy schedule, someone else’s life, and I hated that. And, you know, there’s nothing more depressing than a half-empty McDonald’s with a bunch of single dads and their glum kids struggling to have a conversation over a greasy burger and some cold fries.” He gave himself a shake as if to rid himself of the memory. “I know I most likely sound like I’m complaining. Or doing the whole poor-me act. And, looking back, I wish I’d tried harder. Made it work somehow. Maybe if I’d had a nicer flat, or I’d insisted on having the whole weekend from the beginning… but I was trying to be reasonable, and to do what seemed like the best for Maggie, even if it didn’t feel like it was the best for me.” He’d looked up at her then, resolute, wretched. “So my time with Maggie started slipping. Missed weekends, because she was busy. A birthday party. A special outing. There always seemed to be some reason, and I was willing to accept it.”
“That’s understandable,” Abby had murmured. She could see how it would happen, a gradual wearing away, the erosion of a relationship without the realization of the crumbling. Her relationship with her father had been transformed in an instant; Simon’s with his daughter had changed infinitesimally, yet irrevocably, over time. Yet, despite the differences, the result seemed to be the same—terrible, endless regret.
“I took her on holiday when she was six,” he had resumed, “to one of those all-inclusive places in Spain, and frankly it was a disaster. I wish it hadn’t been—you don’t know how much I wish that!—but by then it felt like it was already too late for us. There were rules and routines I didn’t know well enough. I didn’t tuck her into bed the way she liked. I couldn’t do her hair in pigtails properly. There were a thousand moments like that.” He’d swallowed again, gripping his hands together tightly, knuckles bony and white. A deep breath, a careful exhalation. “So while you only have one moment, Abby, I have more than I can count. More than I can remember. And I know none of them are as significant as yours, not even close, but the result is I barely see or talk to my daughter now.” He looked away, his mouth tightening, his usually laughing eyes full of self-recrimination.
Despite everything he’d already said, this had surprised her. Shocked her, in a prickly, uncomfortable way. “Why don’t you? I mean, barely is…” Bad. But she didn’t want to say it.
“Oh, it’s not quite as cut and dried as that.” He had forced his lips stiffly upwards, all easy, affable charm gone now, something vulnerable and pulsatingly painful revealed. “You know, neither of us would say it quite so bluntly. And there’s nothing hostile between us, although sometimes I actually wish there was. At least that would mean there was something to work out, rather than just this—this weary indifference on Maggie’s part.” He’d sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of surrender. “Sara met someone when Maggie was seven. Pete. Very nice guy. Very solid. Very genuine.” He spoke flatly, without any bitterness, but Abby could tell it cost him. “And a great father figure, of course. The more he was involved in Maggie’s life, the less I needed to be. Not that anyone said that, or even implied it. But Sara and I had agreed that Maggie could make her own choices, that her happiness was paramount. And, time and time again, first just once in a while, then more often, she chose Pete. Which I understood—I really did. She wanted to go to Pete’s take-your-daughter-to-work day. Pete was the one who taught her to ride a bike.” His face had contorted, then evened out, expressionless. “I became this… this extraneous appendage, like some awkward uncle who won’t leave the party. And I let it happen.”
And there was the poisonous root of the guilt—I let it happen. Just as she had. And sitting there on the bed with her knees tucked up to her chest and tears still dried on her cheeks, Abby had realized she and Simon weren’t that different, after all. What did it matter if it had been one moment or a million? The result was the same—a choice you hadn’t realized you were making, a consequence you could have never foreseen. And a life of crippling regret as you insisted you’d forgiven yourself even as you knew you never would.
“It all sounds incredibly difficult,” she had said at last, hating how careful her voice sounded, but not knowing how else to respond.
Simon had given a grimace of self-disgust. “Oh, who I am kidding? Here I am, painting myself to you like some absurd victim. It all just happened to me. That’s not true, Abby. That’s just not true.”
She had blinked at the self-loathing in his voice, like an acid coating his words. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I didn’t just let it happen without realizing. I realized. I saw it unfold. And I allowed it, because frankly it felt like shit to be sidelined, and I’d rather just choose to fade out myself. When I came here to America, I didn’t even tell Maggie until I was on the plane. Three weeks of summer holidays, we could have done something together, but I knew she wouldn’t want to, and so I chose to check out. As I have been for years. That’s the truth. That’s the truth I can’t forgive myself for, and yet I keep doing it.” He had finished with a sound of self-disgust, a full stop to his recriminations.
“So don’t,” Abby had said simply. Gently.
He’d blinked at her. “Don’t…?”
“You’d say the same to me, wouldn’t you? Don’t do it anymore. Stop feeling guilty. Stop blaming yourself. There’s no point in it, even if you have something to be guilty about. You can’t change the past, only the future, so choose a different path. All those lines worthy of a meme or to be on a mug. Come on, Simon. It doesn’t have to be this way, just because it has in the past.”
A tiny smile had quirked the lines of his mouth. “I wasn’t expecting you to say all that.”
“I don’t know if I was, either,” Abby had admitted. “But we’re not so different, you know. We’ve both let the past predict our future. We’ve let moments define us, whether it’s one or one hundred, and they don’t have to. We don’t have to let them. I finally get that, thanks to you. So you need to get it, too. You’ve helped me, Simon. Let me help you.”
“Thank you,” he had said. He’d stared at her for a long moment, and then wordlessly he’d leaned across the expanse of floral-patterned bedspread and wrapped his hand around the back of her head, drawing her to him. Their lips had touched softly, as if in slow motion, a press, a promise. It wasn’t a passionate kiss; it felt like something more important than that.
Abby drew away first. “You’re leaving in a few days.” She spoke matter-of-factly.
“I know.”
Neither of them had said anything for a few moments. Simon’s fingers were still threaded through her hair.
“I’ve never told anyone what I’ve told you. I’ve never let myself,” he’d admitted.
“I never have, either.”
More silence that they breathed in, letting it relax them.
“Let’s not talk about us now,” Abby had said finally. “If there even is an us—”
“There is.”
His quiet assurance had made her smile. “Really, we should be thinking about Matthew and Lily. Do you think you can find out wha
t happened to them?”
“I can try.”
Their food had arrived then, and they ate in surprisingly relaxed affability, considering all the revelations they’d had, all the emotional outpouring that had been going on. Afterwards, they watched a silly movie, Simon’s arm around her shoulders, her head nestled against him, and at eleven Abby had finally decided to go to bed. Simon had kissed her at the door like a gentleman. It felt like the best evening she could remember having in a long, long time.
