Yeah, yeah. I promise.
I place my phone on the end table next to my couch and lay my head back, hugging Maya tight. Now that we have a plan in place, I feel like I can breathe a bit better. I really hope this doesn’t all blow up in my face.
I fold the same dish towel for the third time and set it down, only to pick it up again. Across the kitchen, Maya is curled up on the couch with a coloring book in her lap and her socked feet tucked beneath her. She hums to herself—completely content, a pink marker streaking over the outline of a dinosaur in a tutu. She has no idea how much my heart is breaking right now.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed tight over my chest, and take a deep breath. I’ve rehearsed this conversation a dozen different ways. Practiced it while driving, while brushing my teeth, while standing in line at the grocery store. Nothing makes it easier.
How do you tell your daughter that the man you’ve only ever called “your father” in vague, faraway terms is suddenly interested in being part of her life? That the man who never showed up before wants to now?
That you agreed—after years of silence, of anger, of carefully chosen explanations—to let her meet him?
I run a hand over my face. She deserves to know the truth. She always has. But there’s a difference between protecting your child and preparing her for disappointment. And I’m still not sure where that line is.
“Mami?”
I look up.
Maya’s head is tilted to the side, marker still in hand. “Are you okay? You’re looking at the wall weird again.”
I force a smile. “Yeah, baby. Just thinking.”
“About dinner?”
“About something important.”
She narrows her eyes in that very serious, very Maya way. “Is it bad?”
I shake my head and push off the counter, walking over to sit on the arm of the couch beside her. I smooth a hand over her hair, fingers catching in one of her curls. “No. Not bad. Just…big.”
She puts her marker down and turns toward me fully, hands folded in her lap like she knows something is coming.
I pause then speak softly. “I want to talk to you about your dad.”
Her expression shifts—slightly. Not fear. Not excitement. Just…alert. Like she’s listening more carefully now.
“You know how we’ve talked about him before?” I start. “How I told you he wasn’t around when you were born?”
She nods. “You said he had to leave.”
That’s one way I said it. When she was four and asking why everyone else’s daddies were around but hers wasn’t. And then later, I said he couldn’t be what we needed. That sometimes, people don’t know how to love the right way.
And she accepted that—because kids trust their moms. Especially when their moms hold their world together like glue. When they’re there for their children every single day, with unconditional love.
“Well…” I breathe in slowly. “He’s reached out recently. He wants to meet you.”
Maya’s eyes widen. “Meet me?”
I nod. “You’ve never met in person. But he asked for the chance.”
She’s quiet. I let the silence stretch, let her process it in whatever way her six-year-old brain can.
Finally, she asks, “Why now?”
The million dollar question.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But I think…he wants a chance to know you. Even if it’s just once.”
She chews on her bottom lip, eyes flicking back to the half-finished dinosaur on the page, then back to me. “Does he know what I look like?”
