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“I can tell,” you say. “You’re glowing. You’re so beautiful.”
I look back at you when you say that.
“Come back to me,” you say. “I need another chance, just one more. We can’t let it end this way. We’re having a baby, and I don’t even know… is it a boy? A girl? When are you due? I don’t know anything, but I want to. So come with me. Please. I’m making money now, and I can take care of you.”
If anyone’s actually reading this, and I don’t know if anyone ever will, this is the moment where I’ll lose them, where they’ll rant about that stupid character messing up the story. And I get it, because so much of me yearns for you to be my happy ending, but I can’t apologize for doing what's right.
I shove out of the rocking chair and step off of the porch. Your gaze goes right to my stomach, as do your hands. I don’t stop you, though my chest feels like it’s caving in. Your eyes are lighting up, and I know—god, I know—you’ll make a great father, one of the greatest, and you’ll love this little girl with every part of your soul.
But that can't happen until you’re ready.
“I love you,” I whisper, three words you haven’t said, as I put my hand on top of yours on my stomach. “More than everything… except for her.”
You meet my gaze. “It’s a girl?”
I nod, and hesitate, before I kiss you, lingering, letting you have this moment, and if I’m being honest, it’s just as much for me.
I need this moment to gather my courage.
And when I do, I pull back and say, “I need you to leave.”
You look at me, stunned.
“I need you to go and not come back until you get better,” I say. “I’m asking you… no, I’m begging you… don’t come back here like this again. She’s going to need a father, a real one, someone who can love her more than everything. There’s no place in our lives for an addict. So, please… leave, Jonathan.”
I go inside, because I can’t stand there and look at him, shoving past my father. I sit on the couch. I sit and sit and sit. My father still hangs out right there, watching. And an hour later, he says, “He finally left.”
It took you an hour.
After you’re gone, my mom says, “I’m proud of you. I know that must’ve been tough.”
“I’m surprised the son of a bitch respected her wishes,” my dad says. “He never respected mine when I told him to stay away from my daughter.”
“Michael,” my mom warns. “Now’s not the time.”
He holds his hands up.
“I’m not surprised he listened,” she continues. “He’s a good guy.”
My dad lets out a loud laugh.
“He is,” my mom says. “He’s just an addict, and your daughter was his first high. That boy would’ve run right into traffic if she said she needed him to.”
My dad looks at me. “I’ll pay you fifty bucks to do it.”
“Michael!”
“Geez, okay, don’t bite my head off, woman,” he says, squeezing my shoulder as he says, “I’ll throw in some free babysitting, too.”
My mom laughs. “You’ll be babysitting for free as it is, Gramps.”
He makes a face, mumbling, “Gonna need a better nickname.”
Before my dad can walk away, I ask, “What made you get better?”
He sighs. “You did, kiddo.”
“Me?”
“I ruined your birthday,” he says. “Forgot it was your birthday. Came home wasted, ate your cake before you could, passed out on the couch and pissed myself. Your mother snapped and tried to kill me for it.”
“I didn’t try,” my mom says. “What your father is leaving out is that I kicked him out that morning, but he didn’t respect my wishes to stay gone.”
“In my defense, I got drunk and forgot I wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“How is that a defense?”
“Guess it’s not.”
“Anyway, I threatened him so he wouldn’t forget again.”
“I woke up to you pouring liquor on me,” he says. “Then you pulled out matches and threatened to light my ass up!”
“Exactly,” she says. “I threatened.”
I vaguely remember the cake thing, but I don’t remember that. “So mom scared you sober?”
“Oh, no, as scary as she can be, that wasn’t it,” he says. “After she put down the matches, I apologized to you. I told you I was sorry, and you said…”
He trails off, so my mom chimes in. “You told him you didn’t care about his sorry because he wasn’t your dad anymore, you decided you didn’t want a dad because all they ever did was stuff to be sorry for, so he could go.”
“You were only five,” he says. “You weren’t mad. You were just done.”
“That did it? But almost being set on fire didn’t?”
“Your mother tried to kill me because she loved me and wanted her husband back,” he says, ignoring her when she again says she didn’t try. “You decided you didn’t want me anymore. I was like a broken toy that you never liked, so you were okay with your mother tossing it out. I loved you, but I’d never given you a reason to love me. I had to make a change.”
