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“No. God no. I’d never. But when I started to think about IVF, I decided I wanted a man who looked nothing like my dad. So, that’s how I chose. Weird, right? Talk about a messed up Daddy complex.” She cringes.
The part that I thought was messed up was that this poor man had a smart and beautiful daughter he didn’t know about and that he was about to have two grandchildren. It seemed wrong to not give him the choice to invite them into his life or not. If it had been me, I’d want to know. I felt a pang of anger toward Tonya for having unilaterally denied the man his daughter and Mags her father and his side of her family.
CHAPTER13
Magdalena
I’d never told a soul about knowing who my dad was. And the look on Stirling’s face confirms I never should have told him.
“You’re disgusted,” I say.
He looks away. “No. No, not at all. I think I’m angry. Not that I have any right to be.”
That surprises me. “Angry at who?”
“Your mother, mostly. You, a little.”
Adrenalin shoots into my bloodstream with a jolt. The fight, flight or freeze decision is immediate: I want to fight.
“You’re mad at me,” I snarl, “for choosing a sperm donor based on what my dad looks like?”
“No, I’m mad at you for not telling him you exist.”
I scoff. I’d not intended to share any more about the man who fertilized my mom’s egg, but I don’t like the way Stirling is judging me and my mother for something he knows nothing about.
“Not everyone had a perfect dad like you did.”
“My father was not perfect. But at least he was given a chance to be a father.”
And this is exactly why I prefer to be single. Men always know best, even when they know nothing.
“You think the man I share a genetic pool with should have had a chance to be a father?”
“I do.”
I’m suddenly overcome by extreme fatigue and sadness. Stirling and I have known each other for just over a month and have spent the last nine days and nights together. This is our first fight and I feel pretty sure it will be our last.
“What the hell,” I sigh, “you’re already looking at me like I’m a monster.” I reach for my phone, open my browser, search my father’s name and hand the device to Stirling.
His eyebrows pinch together as his finger slowly scrolls the page up. He says nothing as he reads. When he finally looks at me, there’s deep pain in his eyes.
“So, where do you stand on the nature versus nurture debate?” I ask.
Stirling doesn’t answer. He places my phone on the bedside table and positions himself to take me in his arms. I stiffen. That is not what I expected.
“I am so, so sorry, I judged without all the information. Your mother was right to keep you a secret. So were you. I was wrong. Will you forgive me?”
I don’t know how to respond. I’d kept this secret for so many years, regretted that I ever learned it myself, and have always believed that if anyone else knew the truth, they’d look at me like I was capable of the things my father had done. I knew I wasn’t. Mom never treated me like I was anything like him. But when men like dear old dad are in the news, people always say, “I hope he didn’t have kids.”
Subtext: “I sure hope there aren’t more like him out there.”
My interpretation: “Don’t ever tell a soul where you come from.”
Stirling rubs small circles over my back and I finally melt into him.
“How old were you when you found out?”
“Mid-twenties.”
