“That’s great. Do you do well in school?”
“School is a breeze for me. Kind of boring, actually, but I’m doing it. Not like I have a choice.”
Who is this person?
She pointed toward a neighborhood café and we walked in. Ash ordered a latte and a scone, and I got my usual black coffee. There was a good-looking young man working the counter, and I caught Ash brazenly shooting him googly eyes.
I looked at her in shock. Teenage girls were a totally different species to me.
“What?” she asked.
“Uh, nothing.”
We sat at a small, round table near the window and looked out. “It’s a nice day. I love the spring.”
“Are we gonna talk about the weather?” she asked directly but serenely. I couldn’t get over how self-possessed she was.
“There’s no manual for this, Ash.”
“I know, and I’m trying to be sympathetic, but you’re a grown man....”
I chuckled. “You’re right.”
“Look, I know the story. Mom was very honest with me while I was growing up, and now we know you were totally in the dark about me this whole time.”
I felt relieved. She was good at setting me at ease. “That’s true, I was.”
“No one blames you.”
“I wasn’t worried about that. But now that you mention it, what did you think of me before, when you thought I wanted nothing to do with you?”
“Well, my mom kept a book on you, sort of. It started out with a bunch of pictures and notes and things from when you two were in college, and then she would cut out articles about you and your work and add them in over time.” The thought of Grace doing that choked me up. “And she took me to see some of your photos when they were on display for a workshop downtown, but she didn’t really talk about your circumstances.”
“Yeah, but what didyouthink?”
“Honestly, my mom always spoke pretty highly of you, but the story of your relationship was presented like a cautionary tale or something. A lesson for me to learn from. Shedidn’t blame you, even before she discovered the truth, so I didn’t think much of anything—just that you had a crazy career and kids weren’t your thing.”
I stared past her out the window. “I wanted kids....”
“My mom didn’t know, so you shouldn’t blame her. She would always tell me how badly she wanted me. She told me that when people come together and... you know... do it”—her cheeks turned pink—“that they should always be on the same page about kids and the future and all that. I guess she thought you knew from the letters and that you didn’t want to be a dad.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“I meant it when I say she never put you down. I’m smart enough to know it’s because part of me is made from you; she’d be putting me down at the same time if she did that.”
I was experiencing every feeling one could have at the same time, including love. I was feeling love for the sweet child sitting in front of me, defending me and defending her mom, equally, with such loyalty and insight. “You’re very smart.” My throat tightened. “You’re like your mom in that way. Very perceptive and witty.” I collected myself. “And your childhood... how was it?”
“It was pretty good. I mean, my dad totally loved me and my mom always did her best. I had everything I needed.” She sipped her coffee.
“What’s your last name?”
“Porter.”
I felt a lump in my throat. “Of course.”
“It was just easier that way. You’re on my birth certificate, though.”
“Am I?”
