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OUR DAUGHTER
PRESENT
Is time supposed to dull passion?
Fragmented pieces of our time together play in the recesses of my mind as I hold him, content to connect with him in this way.
We’d each missed so much, and it hurts. It hurts knowing he’s missed so much of Penny’s life.
“If you ever send me a fucking check again—”
I’ve pulled back to spit the stern words out, but he presses his palm over my lips, leaning close to look me in my eyes.
“I didn’t know what else to do. I need you to know that I wanted to be here, but I thought it was best to leave you alone and let you be happy with a good man taking care of her.”
I pull away from him, a question on the tip of my tongue.
“You understand that Peter is still her father, right?”
“I won’t ever try to take that from him. All I’m asking is to be a part of her life, too. And for another chance to make things right with you.”
He presses his forehead to mine, and I close my eyes, wondering where we go from here. How could my past, present, and future all collide like this?
After a moment, he speaks words that pierce me.
“I really,reallywant to meet our daughter.”
Our daughter.
It’s the first time he’s acknowledged her in this way and I smile, my eyes filling. I’ve cried so much today for so many different reasons. But I don’t mind these ones.
How do I describe Penelope to someone who’s never met her?
“She’s surly like you,” I start, stepping away from him to grab one of our photo albums in the living room. It was always Peter who bothered printing and arranging them, something I’d have to remember to do now.
“I’m not surly,” he calls after me, following me into my home. I turn to watch him scanning the area and I wonder what he thinks of it.
“I recently watched a video compilation of all the times you argued with interviewers,” I point out, opening the album and smiling at the first set of pictures I see.
He lets out his next breath in a hiss. “You saw that?”
“I did,” I confirm. “And she’ll see things like this, too.”
His nod is resolute, as if he understands that he can’t act like this anymore with little eyes on him.
I beckon him over to the couch and we both stare at the photos I show him.
“She’s always had your nose,” I start, running my finger over her baby picture. “Always had your dark hair.”
Abraham is wordless, watching as I flip each page, absorbing the years as best he can.
“Her sister looks like a little blonde you,” he whispers, awe in his voice. “What are their names?”
“You never found out?” I ask, turning to look him in his eyes. He shakes his head and I pat his hand. “Penelope and Jillian.”
He nods, blinking a few times. And then I share my last secret I’ve kept from him. One he could’ve easily found out on his own. But I’m happy to tell him for myself.
“I gave her the middle name Abigail. It was the closest I could get to Abraham,” I explain.
The album slides to the floor as he pulls me in his arms, squeezing me so tightly, I can hardly breathe.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “Grazie mille, mia Stellina.”
