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The guest room is right beside Lily’s room. I peek in at the girl’s room, taking in the clutter of toys on the floor, and smile at seeing the ten-year-old girl curled up under the covers, sound asleep. She pouts in the morning about missing the end of the movie, or not seeing her father when he gets home.
Then I head into the guest room. It isn’t even much of a guest room; so many of my belongings are strewn around it that it might as well be mine, since I’m the only one who uses it on a regular basis. I flick the lamp on beside the table and look around.
This is the sum total of my life. A guest bedroom in a home I sit on the edge of, beside a man who will never love me. Why do I do this to myself?
I turn away determinedly and get dressed for bed. Sometimes, these moods hit me when I’m tired and not sure what I’m doing with my life, when I wonder if it would be easier to just leave Ethan and Lily behind and find my own happiness somewhere out there.
Then, in the morning, Ethan will smile at me, or Lily will excitedly ask me about the newest news story I’m working on, and I’ll forget why I wanted to walk away in the first place.
I slide under the covers, roll over and close my eyes. Like always, things will look better in the morning.
Of course, I dream.
I know better than to allow my thoughts to lapse for even a moment back to that awful time ten years ago, when Ethan was a mess, Lily had only just been born and I had no idea what to do about any of it. When I relax, I remember how terrible everything was.
And I remember what I gained…and lost.
Ten years ago
At first, everything feels disjointed and out of place. I remember holding Lily for the first time, Ethan flashing me a tired, strained smile that spoke of panic and confusion; he has no idea what to do with a child that was never planned. Somewhere in the background, I remember Polly, too, even more strained than Ethan; perhaps that should have told us, then, that she wasn’t going to last at this.
Then there’s the day Polly left. It’s an ordinary day, and the phone call from Ethan interrupts me as I’m engrossed in a very good book. I couldn’t imagine what would happen next.
“She’s gone!” Ethan tells me hysterically. In the background, Lily is crying. “She just left a note!”
“She might be visiting some friends,” I remember suggesting calmly.
“No…the note says she’s leaving!”
Nothing seemed to make sense at all. Polly is gone? She abandoned Ethan and Lily? I never liked Polly, but that was more to do with my own jealousy than anything. Yet she’s just up and left?
It didn’t make sense.
Then there’s Ethan. Slowly, as the months pass, he looks more ragged, too exhausted to do more than collapse in bed at the end of the day, only to drag himself up again as Lily cries for attention. I do my best to help him, but it doesn’t feel enough.
One particular moment stands out. Polly has been gone nine months at this point. The memory flashes through my mind and lingers. Ethan is standing on my doorstep. It’s raining outside. Lily is clutched in my arms.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says, and he’s crying. I’m crying with him, and Lily is fussing in his arms. “Please help.”
He’s trying so hard, but he just can’t do it anymore. He’s at the end of his rope. I shove the memory away. It’s the lowest moment I’ve ever seen him at. I’m so afraid for him.
And then…there’s that fateful day, one year after Polly leaves. The memories pause and then settle, throwing the world into sharp clarity as I open the door for Ethan once more, this time no Lily in sight, his shoulders slumped and his clothes hanging off him.
I look at Ethan’s bloodshot eyes and I sigh, stepping aside.
“Come in,” I say gently.
The man looks like he’s about to cry as he scurries past me. I feel a flash of anger. Ethan has always been proud and confident, but the last year has torn all that away from him.
“Are you okay?” I ask as I lead him to my living room.
He collapses on the couch.
“What do I do, Georgia?” he asks desperately.
I was expecting that question. He’s asked the same thing several times over the last year, each time more urgently than the last. I wish I knew what to tell him.
“I don’t know, Ethan,” I say dutifully, as I do every time. “What do you want to do?”
