The name on the screen makes my stomach drop through the floor.
Jack Walker.
For a full three seconds, I consider not answering. Just letting it ring until voicemail catches it, then blocking his number and pretending he doesn't exist.
But Jack doesn't go away when you ignore him. Jack escalates.
I slip into the hallway, putting two closed doors between me and Lily's Disney marathon before I swipe to answer.
"Kristen." His voice is warm. Friendly. The voice he uses when other people might be listening. "How's my favourite girl?"
Your favourite girl is currently learning Italian words from a twenty-three-year-old hacker, and she's happier than I've seen her in months.
"What do you want, Jack?"
"Can't a father call to check on his daughter?" He sounds wounded. Hurt. Like I'm the unreasonable one. "I'm back in Chicago. Flew in this morning. Thought I'd swing by, take Lily to the park or something."
The floor tilts beneath my feet.
"Today's not good," I manage. "We have plans."
"Plans." He repeats the word like it's amusing. Like I'm a child playing pretend. "What kind of plans?"
"The kind that don't involve you."
Silence. Then his voice shifts. Drops the warmth like a mask he's tired of wearing.
"I want to see my daughter, Kristen. Today. I have every right?—"
"You have no rights." The words rip out of me before I can stop them. My free hand is shaking. I press it flat against the wall to steady myself. "You left her, Jack. You moved to New Yorkwith your girlfriend and didn't look back. Three months. Three months without a single visit, only a phone call now and then?—"
"I've been busy."
"You've been avoiding your responsibilities." My voice is rising. I force it down, acutely aware of how sound carries in this house. "You don't get to show up whenever it's convenient for you and demand access to a child you've done nothing to support."
"She's my daughter."
"Then act like her father! Pay the debt you put in my name. Send child support." I'm breathing hard now, my chest tight like someone's wrapped wire around my ribs. "You don't get to disappear for months and then waltz back in expecting?—"
"I'll see her today, Kristen." His voice is cold. Final. "Or I'll call my lawyer. See how a judge feels about a mother who denies a father access to his own child."
The threat lands like a punch to the gut.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me." A pause. "I know you can't afford a custody fight. I know exactly how much you have in your account, actually. Down to the cent." He chuckles. "You think I don't have friends who can check these things? You're barely keeping your head above water, and you want to play games with me?"
My vision blurs. I can't tell if it's rage or fear or both.
"I'll call you tomorrow," I say, and my voice sounds wrong. Thin. Like someone else is speaking through my mouth. "When Lily is available."
"Today, Kristen. Or?—"
I hang up.
The phone nearly slips from my sweat-slick palm. I catch it, press it against my chest, and try to remember how to breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
