Page 327 of Mad Girl

“You want to celebrate me? I’ll allow that. I’ll let my dad throw me a huge party—with a fancy cake and flowers galore and a champagne toast and everything. But you have to go first. I want you to be acknowledged and celebrated for who you really are: a Harris.”

“That’s not fair,” you whispered. “It’s not the same.”

“It is the same. You’re in a cage, too—trapped as someone you’re not. You haven’t celebrated your birthday in eight years. You think you don’t deserve to find happiness with your real father because some miserable, homophobic, scum-of-the-earth man once said you didn’t, and it makes me so sad”—I stopped, tried choking back the tears, but some slipped loose as I took your face between my hands—“because you’re the best person I know. If anyone deserves to be celebrated for the person he is, it’s you.”

“No,” you said, choked up yourself. “Telling John who I am now will cause everything to go awry, and I wasn’t supposed to let that happen. I wasn’t supposed to cause conflict or wreck anything. His life is perfect, and I don’t fit. I’ll only cause problems.”

“That’s the fear talking. That’s your piece-of-shit dad talking. You can’t listen to him anymore. He’s wrong about this. I promise you he is.”

“Even if you’re right, he’ll never be my dad the same way he’s theirs. He didn’t”—you stopped, eyes brimming with tears, voice broken as you continued—“carry me round the park on his shoulders. Or read bedtime stories to me every night. Or fucking sit on the floor helping me open presents at Christmas. He didn’t fall in love with me like he did the day Michael was born or form some special attachment to me over the course of my lifetime like he did with you. I missed too much—missed everything that solidifies the bond between a parent and child. It’s too late for me. He can’t love me like he loves them.”

And there it was: the root of the problem. The real fear. The reason you still hadn’t told him. What if John couldn’t love you any more than your adoptive dad did?

“You’ll never know that for sure unless you allow him to try.” I slipped off my stool and stepped between your legs. “Come on. I’ll go with you. I’ll be there the whole time, holding your hand. It’ll be okay.”

Your head shook. “It’s not fair to Michael.”

“This has nothing to do with Michael. It’s about what’s best for you and John.”

“If Michael doesn’t take it well, I might actually have to walk away from you, and I don’t want to do that. I don’t know if I can.”

“We’ll sort that out later. No matter what happens, we’ll live here together for the next nine months. If nothing else, we’ll always have that.”

You stared past me a while, debating. “If I do this,” you said finally, searching my gaze, “you’ll let Nic take you to get a dog?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll do it tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll let me tell you how beautiful you are without ruining it? No more ‘I bet you say that to all the girls’ or any of the other shit that drives me insane?”

“Well, now you’re just throwing things out there⁠—”

“See? This is what I mean. I’m being serious, and you’re being flip.”

“Yes,” I said, placing my hands on your shoulders. “I’ll let you give me compliments.”

“Okay,” you said with a nod. “Alright.” Then you winced. “You know what, though? We don’t even know if he’s home.”

“Nice try. It’s nine a.m. on a Saturday. He went for his morning run around sunrise, showered, ate breakfast, and now he’s probably reading a book while finishing up his coffee. That’s his Saturday morning routine.” I swiped your phone off the island. “But you can text him to be sure.”

“No,” you said, eyes drifting closed as you plucked the phone from my hand. You seemed to be giving yourself a pep talk. “Let’s go.”

Less than ten minutes later, we were huddled close on the Harrises’ front stoop, staring at their glossy black door and the balsam wreath, leftover from Christmas, that barely clung to life. You dragged a shaky hand across your mouth. “I can’t do it.”

“You can.” Before you could change your mind, I grabbed your hand and rang their doorbell.

As the chime sounded inside, you tossed your head back and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

Luckily for us, John answered. “Good morning, you two,” he said, stepping aside so we could enter. “Nic’s in the kitchen with Libby if you need him. Can I get you some coffee?”

You stood there, blinking at him, the tremor in your hand intensifying.

“No,” I said. “We’re actually here to see you, John. We need to talk to you about something.”

“Oh,” he said with a smile. He ushered us into his study, where he had a fire going. The haunting portrait of that woman—painted by your mother—loomed large over the sitting area. “What’s going on?”