“Honey,” my dad calls out as he knocks on the
door of my room. “Can I come in?”
I don’t answer and after a few seconds he comes
in anyway.
I am lying down on the bed and hugging a
pillow. I have been in this position for more or less
ten days, four hours and thirty-six minutes. Ever
since I hurt the man I love and let him go.
I made a mess.
I have to admit that when I saw Nate again,
when he found out about the baby and he said he
was ready to start over, I did have a moment of
doubt creep into my brain. I don’t know why,
maybe because I was confused, my hormones are
crazy, and because Nate is the baby’s father and
even I didn’t tell him the truth right away, it was
just a question of time before I had to. After all, he
did have the right to know.
The only thing I didn’t want was for him to stay
with me to try to save something that was already
over just in order to give the baby some stability.
I wanted to tell Patrick about this situation with
Nate, but he’s been so wonderful in these weeks,
so attentive and caring that day after day I started
to set aside that idea about going back with Nate,
as if the conversation never happened, as if he
didn’t exist and wasn’t really this child’s father.
Because I wanted with all my heart for Patrick
to be the father.
“Honey, Nate is downstairs.”
