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Our lives had slowed down and sped up in different ways. We both took only one role a year, at opposite times so that we could be there for our kids, so they would have a normal childhood—as normal as one could have in Los Angeles.
“Dad, you’re so slow!” Aurora said.
“What can I say? I’m old,” I laughed, picking her up when I got to the bottom of the stairs. She squealed like a piggy as I tickled her.
“Not fair, Daddy!” she gasped, pouting when I put her on the stool behind the kitchen island.
“What, you wanted to be angry all day?” I asked, reaching into the fridge to grab the pies.
“I wanna be serious!”
“Aurora, you are ten. You are way too young to be serious,” I said, putting a plate in front of them both, “and far too young to start acting.”
“You started acting when you were seven,” Austin reminded me.
I stared at him.
“Shutting up,” he muttered, stuffing his face when I gave him a fork.
“But you did,” Aurora stood up to me.
“It’s not fair. I’m good. My drama teacher said I was just as good as Mommy was when she was my age. Other kids get to go on the red carpet with their parents and get to do commercials and stuff. I want to too! Don’t you think I can, Daddy?”
She had no idea what she was asking, which is why I couldn’t give in to her. No matter how much she begged and how cute she looked with those ribbons in her curly brown hair.
“Aurora—Rawr Rawr,” I said. She made a face when I used her nickname. “You are a talented little girl, and your drama teacher is right. I see so much of your mother in you that it really is scary. You will be an amazing actress one day, but not now.”
“But why?” She tried not cry. “Mommy and you—”
“Because your mom and I went through a lot. We never had a free second, everyone was yelling in our faces, we worked way too hard for so long that it wasn’t fun. And the reason why your mother and I don’t take you out to premieres is because we don’t want to have any more attention on you as it is. Do you remember when we went to that zoo while we were in England and someone took a picture of you picking your nose?”
Austin laughed, strawberry on his face. “It was all over school when we got back. Everyone called you Picky Ms. Pick-Pick.”
“And you just let them?” I asked, throwing him a napkin.
He shrugged. “It was only for a day.”
I looked back to Aurora, whose face was red, and she stuffed a piece of pie in her mouth. “So what? It was—”
“It would be like that every day,” I told her. “When you’re on set, when you go out, everywhere—people would take even more photos of you. The reason why you both barely make the news is because no cares that much, so TV people aren’t really looking out for photos of you. But the moment you start acting, the moment everyone falls in love with you just like they did with your mom, is the moment you never get a moment of privacy again. You will hate it. You will hate acting, and as your father, it will hurt me to see you unhappy with something we both love.”
She still didn’t reply.
“Your mom used to cry,” I said, which got their attention. Austin’s face dropped.
“What?” he asked.
“When we started to film, your mom would go hide somewhere, cry until her eyes were red, and then hurry up and clean her face before people came looking for her.”
They were silent. I’m sure they couldn’t picture it. Amelia now was an amazing mother, always laughing and joking with them. They were her world—our world. The people on our list.
Austin looked to Aurora as her shoulders dropped.
“Fine,” she finally let it go. “But when I’m a grownup, I’m going to do it!”
“When you’re a grownup, I’ll be right behind you, cheering you on,” I smiled, taking a bite of her pie.
“Hey!”
