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When I got home from work, my brain weary from hours of typing up reports, I dropped my keys in the small bowl on the table by the door and let my purse slide off my shoulder. The soft thump of it on the floor was punctuation for my long day.
Keeping my jacket on, I fetched my gloves out of the closet and switched from my work shoes into my slip-on winter boots before hurrying out to shovel the front stairs. There were three apartments in the building, separate from Melanie’s. We were all pretty good about taking turns to shovel the outside stairs when it snowed. It was finally slowing after dropping almost six inches during the day. The porch light glowed in the snowy darkness as I shoveled.
For some reason, shoveling was an activity that tended to elicit feelings of loneliness for me. I thought it was because the first apartment I had when Quinn was a baby was an upstairs apartment with its own entrance to the side. While I didn’t mind shoveling, it had always been me clearing those steps alone and forever feeling tired. Being a single mother with a baby was a blur of exhaustion. These days, I wasn’t as tired as I used to be because Quinn slept through the night, which meant I did too. But, still, the feeling lingered.
After I was done, I propped the shovel in the corner of the porch and kicked the snow off my boots before hurrying back upstairs. I shed my coat and boots, my eyes doing a quick check to see Quinn’s laptop on the kitchen counter. Some nights, she was already done with her homework when I got home, and on others, she would return to the kitchen table after dinner and finish.
Her bedroom door was closed, which wasn’t unusual. I changed out of my work clothes into a comfy pair of fleece pants and a fuzzy top. I wanted to be warm and comfortable. I idly wondered what Noah was doing this evening and imagined him in his office working. I didn’t even know what his office looked like. By his own admission, I knew work was his life for the most part.
I experienced a twinge of longing, wishing he was here to curl up on the couch and watch a show with me. I shook that away because I was starving and needed to make sure Quinn had something for dinner. Pausing by her door, I knocked lightly, calling, “Quinn?”
I was greeted with silence. When I knocked again, her voice was muffled when she replied, “Come in.”
Opening the door, I found her sitting on her bed with her legs crossed. Her phone lay on the bed in front of her as she stared down at it. Her hands were twisted together in her lap.
Her brow was pinched with worry, and I abruptly had a hollow feeling in my stomach.
Crossing the room quickly, I slipped my hips on the bed beside her. “What is it?”
I resisted the urge to pick up her phone. She lifted her eyes to mine. “My father sent me an email.” I stared at her blankly, my brain not computing. She repeated, “My father, better known as my sperm donor.”
“Oh. Oh!” Finally, the information processed. “Really?”
Quinn nodded slowly, blinking and swallowing audibly.
“What did he say, honey?”
“He wanted to know how I was doing.” My daughter spoke slowly, almost as if she were picking her way through her feelings about it.
My fingers practically itched to grab her phone. I resisted the urge, lacing my fingers together, almost as if to force them to behave.
“How do you feel?” I pressed, trying to keep the spinning sense of panic and worry out of my voice.
Quinn’s eyes whipped up to mine. “Angry. He’s known I existed for years. Why is he reaching out to me now?”
A confusing mix of anger, disappointment, and raw sadness tightened my chest. When one parent completely ignored the existence of their child, it was hard to know how to handle it when they reached out. In my case, I’d always been just getting by, so the idea that my stupid high school boyfriend might come out of nowhere and try to get custody of Quinn terrified me. But it also hurt me that he didn’t even care enough to try to be a part of my daughter’s life. She was an incredible girl, the best ever, and he didn’t even know it.
“Sweetie—” I began, again stopping abruptly when Quinn shook her head sharply.
“Mom, it doesn’t matter. He’s an asshole.”
“It’s okay if itdoesmatter,” I added as I shifted closer to her on the bed and curled my arm around her shoulders.
She tucked her head into the side of my neck, and I could feel the little tremor running through her.
“I wish it didn’t get to me,” she mumbled into my collarbone.
“It’s okay that it does,” I said, circling my palm on her back.
After a moment, she lifted her head and straightened her shoulders. My arm fell away as I looked at her. Her chin rose slightly, and I bit back the urge to smile. She was feeling stubborn.
“I’m just going to let his email wait. He’s been in no rush to talk to me, so I’m not in any hurry to respond to him.”
I suspected he’d known how to contact her. A few years ago when her grandmother had reached out, I’d given her an email for Quinn with Quinn’s permission. He must’ve gotten that email address from her.
“What’s for dinner?” she asked, straightening her legs and wiggling her feet.
“I was just going to take a look and see what we have. Any requests?”
