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Browsing through the app I notice her determination growing, and my heart grows with it. I thought exiting each profile would lessen her hope, but no, she is always equally sure the next one would be the right one…and we only have two left.
“Noah. This is him. I feel it!” she exclaims.
“Right? I feel it too!” It’s a tiny white lie, I am completely discouraged.
“Okaaaaaay…..please, please, please, be dad!” she whispers, keeping her eyes sealed shut.
I stare at the picture on the screen. The guy looking back is forty five years old,tops. He is sitting between two little girls dressed in the same outfit, which makes me think they are twins. The girls are his carbon copy. Straight blonde hair, rosy cheeks, green eyes and three of the brightest of smiles. Snapping my head back to Ronan, I watch her world crumble. He has a new family.
“That’s my dad,” she says, her chin trembling. “That’s my dad, Noah.”
Her eyes are getting glassy again, as she grips my fingers in a tight fist.
“That’s my dad, and those are my sisters.”
Sobs replace the words on her lips, and all I can do is hold her through the pain. She hides her face into my shirt, holding onto me as if I was her lifeline.
“That’s my dad, Noah,” she keeps repeating and rocking against me.
“I am so sorry,” the guilt is eating at me. “I should’ve never suggested this. I am truly sorry.”
She lifts her eyes to me, and smiles softly through the tears.
“You couldn’t have known.”
“Still. It wasn’t my place to make you do this.” I whisper into the skin of her forehead, guilt clawing at my insides. “I should’ve known better.”
“You gave me a chance at getting closure,” she wipes her tears, as she sits back to look at me. “Now, I can finally ask what I did so wrong that made him disappear.”
Ronan adjusts the laptop and goes back to exploring his page. He is forty two, which means he had her at 18. The photo we saw first was taken at the twins’ birthday party. They are five years old, the same age Ronan was when he left. He is married, working as a plumber, and has a happy family.
“He can be a good dad, you see?” she says, looking through his albums, her finger touching the laptop screen. “Mom must be right.”
“Or maybe, just maybe, you contact him first, before coming to conclusions all by yourself.”
“You are right, but I can’t do it through yourFacebook.”
“Can’t you send him an e-mail?” I ask.
“Yes! I can totally do that. You are so smart!” she breathes. “Noah, how do I do that?”
“I am sure you know how to write an e-mail, Ronan.” We both laugh out loud.
“I know thaaaaat! What I don’t know is how to write an email tohim.”
I chuckle at her childish way of saying that. She is nervous, and rightfully so. I would be too if I had to talkwithmy mom ever again. Now I just talktoher.
“Do you want help? “ I ask, leaning closer to her.
“That would be lovely!” She peck-kisses me and shoves the laptop into my hands. “You type, please.”
“Okay, I can do that for you.”
I get up to mix the stew and make us some coffee, then go back to the sofa, lean into my seat, and dive right into typing. This is going to be a long evening.
Dear Peter,
I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, but I have figured out no better way to do it. I hope you still remember me, as I will never forget you, since you are my father.
