The breath leaves my lungs.
“Well, honey, you know,” I start, unsure of what to say because every variation of words that could leave my lips feels…wrong. The truth is, Emma and I are much more alike than I’d like, not because she’s not the most amazing, gorgeous, cool girl I’ve ever met, and it’s an honor to be like her, because she is, but because I don’t want that for her.
Both of our moms left, though I was lucky enough, if you want to call it that, to have the illusion of a perfect family for my first ten years.
In contrast, Emma’s mom was in the picture for just a few years that Emma probably doesn’t even remember before she told Jesse that she didn’t want to be a full-time mom, instead wanting to follow her dream of being a model or singer or actress—honestly, I can’t really remember, mostly because I don’t care—and leaving Jesse full custody of their daughter. And just like my mom in the first few years after she left, Kim occasionally makes plans to see Emma, but, more often than not, backs out at the last minute with some elaborate excuse as to why she can’t come.
“You didn’t have a mom to help you through this, either. You get it.” She says it with cheer instead of the sadness I feel settling in my chest, and I force myself to mirror it.
She doesn’t have to know what I’m thinking or how it clearly isn’t weighing on her in the same way.
“Well, I’m honored you called me, Emma. And any other time you need something, I’m your girl.” She gives me her soft Emma smile, then nods.
“Yeah. I know.”
Emma then turns back to the movie and starts chomping on chips, but all I can think about is just how right it feels to be back here.
TWENTY-THREE
“Everything okay?” my dad asks when I walk into his office, brows furrowed, the lines deep from years of my siblings and I putting him through the wringer. I rarely show up unannounced on a Saturday, much less go right to his office rather than go bug my mom for food or a babysitting favor, so he knows something is off.
I sigh, running a hand over my hair as I try to sort through a million and seven thoughts, all of them conflicting and new and uncomfortable.
Emma locking herself in her room.
Emma calling Hallie.
Emma getting her period, which, in the grand scheme, I know was to be expected, but it still feels like it came out of nowhere, this moment where my kid is no longer my little girl.
And, of course, Hallie.
My girl called Hallie.
Mygirl calledHallie.
I think if I were someone else, I could get jealous of that, of her turning to someone else during a moment of vulnerability, especially since Emma has always beenmine.But Emma called Hallie, and it made sense, in a way.
She’s as attached to the woman as I’m realizing I am.
“Emma got her period,” I say low before thinking that I should keep that to myself. It’s Emma’s story to share, or not if she chooses, but when a look crosses my dad’s face, a mix of understanding and solidarity, I remember that he’s been here and had to watch his own little girl grow up.
“Who’s with her? Wren?”
I shake my head, then sit in the chair across from him, sinking in.
“She called Hallie.”
I expect him to be confused. To ask a question. Something.Anything, because when I realized my daughter called Hallie this afternoon, I was all of those things.
But as it seems to be my dad’s way, he confuses me.
“Makes sense.” I shouldn’t be surprised. My dad’s always been able to see what I couldn’t long before I could. Silence spans between us before he speaks again. “How’s it going with her?”
“Emma?”
“No, Hallie.”
I tip my head to the side. “I don’t?—”
