When we finally settled down, she said, “I decided to meet Dad.”
The change of topic gave me whiplash. I couldn’t speak for a full minute. And when I finally found the ability to make sound again, all I managed was a soft, “Oh.”
She made a growly sound in the back of her throat. “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you. Fuck, Ada, I’m so sorry. I’m a traitor.”
Her genuine remorse unstuck my tongue. “Stop it, you are not. I just... I haven’t let my feelings about him suddenly jumping into your life develop yet. My thoughts on the whole thing are still marinating. I’m still shocked he reached out to you after twenty-two years.”
“Thanks for the reminder of how long it’s been.” She winced.
“Well, the math is easy since he left when you were a baby.”
She paled. “Don’t you believe people can change? Obviously, twenty-two years is a crazy long time. But don’t you think he maybe grew over that time? Matured? How could you not? Two decades is a long time to think about all the things you regret.”
“I think it’s the length that bothers me. I would feel like shit after one year, five, ten. After more than two decades, I feel like you either find a way to be okay with who you are, or you’ve forgotten about the people you hurt entirely.”
“He sounds really sorry.” At my quirked brow, she confessed, “We’ve talked a few times on the phone. I emailed him my cell number because now that I’m not a Duke student, I didn’t know what would happen to my student email. He called me almost immediately, and we talked for twenty minutes. Every time he calls, it gets longer and longer.” Her eyes brightened with both tears and excitement. “Ada, he’s a funny guy. Always making sarcastic little remarks. He reminds me a lot of you actually—”
“Please don’t,” I whispered, my throat and heart and soul squeezed tight from hurt. “Please don’t compare me to him.”
She pressed her lips together but didn’t apologize. “He asked for your number too. Or email address. Whatever you might be comfortable with him having.”
“Did you tell him I wanted nothing to do with him?”
“I didn’t have to. He assumes. He just... he has hope. I really think he feels like the worst about how he left us. None of us can go back and change the past, but that doesn’t mean we have to be miserable now.”
Instead of arguing with her, I asked, “Have you talked to Mom?”
She cleared her throat in a dainty kind of way that reminded me of her Snow White secret identity. “Yes. I told her.”
“What did she have to say?”
“Not a whole lot. She just warned me to be careful.”
I made a mental note to call her later. Adleigh didn’t always think about our mom’s feelings. It wasn’t that she ignored them or didn’t care about them. She just expected her to be fine with everything.
The memory of my dad leaving flashed in my mind again. My mother’s face wet with tears, the sheer panic in her eyes. The days and weeks and months afterward when she would lock herself in the bathroom while Adleigh napped so she could weep in private. The Christmases and birthdays following with hardly any presents and the way she would apologize for not being able to afford more. The exhausted shadow that followed her around everywhere as she tried to provide enough for us. The shame whenever we went to the grocery store and used our food stamps card or when my grandma would send us money in the mail and my mom would have to drive to the bank right then and deposit it.
By the time Adleigh could remember our lives, we had stabilized. Mom had worked her ass off to get a job as a paralegal for a law firm who appreciated her enough to give her PTO whenever we got sick and let her work from home over winter break. We’d eventually bought a house. Birthdays got better. Christmases were never huge, but they were wonderful. We’d carved out a lovely, happy life. And to this day, I was still amazed at all my mom had accomplished.
But the trauma of those first several years...
Some days, I had to face that I didn’t just carry my own abandoned broken heart; I carried hers too.
I didn’t think Adleigh had it any better than us. She still grew up without a dad. She still had to answer questions like, “Where are you going on vacation this summer?” with the same old, “Grandma’s house,” every single time. There were things we asked for and never got. Camps and clothes and activities we couldn’t afford. But she missed the shattering. The crushing loss of losing someone who should have loved us enough to stick around.
And even if he couldn’t love us enough, he should have stayed because it was the right thing to do.
“That’s a good idea,” I told her. “To be careful.”
“I am,” she insisted. “Besides, like you keep pointing out, I’m a real grown-up now. I don’t need my dad anymore. Not like when I was a little girl and wished he’d surprise us at Thanksgiving or something. So whatever this is... it’s just extra. It’s nice. And exciting. But I’m cool either way. Whatever happens, I’m happy. I don’t need him to make me happier.”
I wanted to point out that it sounded like she was trying to convince herself. But I decided to bite my tongue. I hoped she was right. I wanted her to be right.
“So should I give him your number or...”
I heard her words, that she said she didn’t need our dad for anything, but there was blatant hope in her eyes, a twinkle of excitement. She truly wanted me to see him.
“He just... he has hope. I really think he feels like the worst about how he left us. None of us can go back and change the past. But that doesn’t mean we have to be miserable now.”
