Page 52 of Child of Mine

After I walk away from Bella—mind blown—all I can figure out to do is bike back to my apartment, which is not what anyone would call a home, I have to acknowledge when I walk in the front door. Bare walls and minimal furnishings do not scream “Welcome.” What would a little girl think if I brought her over here? The only sign that someone actually lives here is my dog.

What if she’s afraid of dogs?

Since I haven’t made it beyond the doorway, Ribsy takes matters into his own paws—or jaws, rather—by pulling his leash off the hook. Whining, he circles me until I grab it. After a brief tug of war, I clip it onto his collar, and we head out to the park. As I watch him sniff for doggie news, my heart rate slows and my thoughts unwind.

When Ribsy came to live with me, he was a whole different animal than the puppies my family had adopted. Big eyes and bigger needs made bonding easy with them. Even though Ribsy was fully grown, I doubt he’d ever seen the inside of a house before he found me. It took a lot of patience to train him to stop treating my apartment like a kennel. He’d jump onto the bed, the couch, even the kitchen counter and marked his territory in the corner of my office. I’ll admit there were a few times when I rued the day I let him hop into my truck. But now, I wouldn’t trade him for the cutest puppy.

Seeing Lilah was… like Ribsy running at my truck. A deep-seated feeling barreled into my heart the moment I laid eyes on her. I’ve watched my cousins and siblings go all goo-goo eyed over their babies in a way I can’t picture myself ever doing. And it’s not like my heart is magically bursting out of its frame like the Grinch’s when he learns the true meaning of Christmas.

It’s more like a drive. To protect her.

Even if it’s from myself.

It’s pretty clear that I can’t just barge in and demand that she love me—or even trust me. Like Ribsy, she’s no big-eyed baby. She’s a kid. She’s spent years on this earth without me. If I’m going to have a relationship with her, I have to be patient and let it evolve. And I guess if she decides she’d rather not have a dad in her life, I’ll be her father in name only: mail a check every month and a card on her birthday.

Still, as Ribsy and I pass the playground where dads are pushing kids on swings and teaching them how to ride without training wheels and picking them up and kissing boo-boos, I’m insanely—if irrationally—jealous of what they have. Of what they’ve had the opportunity to build from day zero with their kids.

The chance I didn’t have.

But as my jaw tightens with anger, I have to ask:Whose fault is that? Really?

The night Bella and I met and had sex like I’d never experienced before, I could’ve found my way back to that dressing room after I got the message about my dad. I could’ve given her my phone number. Hell, she could’ve been a support while I stumbled through the grief of losing him.

I just assumed that she wouldn’t be interested.

She seems to have done fine parenting without me thus far. I guess I owe it to her not to mess things up.

“Thanks for the walk, Ribsy. I just wish you could talk too,” I say as we climb the stairs to our place. He barks in response, but that’s probably because it’s dinnertime.

After I hang up his leash and feed him, I survey the contents of my fridge. It’s as empty as the living room walls. Sifting through takeout menus—the one thing I’ve managed to accumulate since I moved to Boston—I wonder how I think I’m in any way prepared to be any sort of a positive influence on Lilah. When I pick up the phone to call the Chinese place—hey, at least I know my daughter likes that—I’m tempted to call my mom to get her advice.

In that moment, I kind of get why Bella didn’t tell me right away. I mean, what do I say?Hey, Mama, guess what? I had sex with a girl the night Dad died, haven’t seen her since. But I happen to be working with her now, and apparently, I fathered her kid. Small world, huh?

The way that my little girl got to this earth is a mess. If nothing else, I need to avoid adding to it.

I just wish there was somebody who could tell me how to do that.

* * *

BELLA

It takes every ounce of acting talent I have to pretend that everything’s fine and dandy as I go through the motions of parenting my child for the rest of the evening. I almost fall asleep as my baby reads to me fromThe Boxcar Children—okay, I do fall asleep—but Lilah wakes me to say goodnight.

“Sorry, baby,” I yawn. “Mommy’s a little tired.”

She nods as if she understands all. “You ran around a lot on the stage.”

“I did,” I say, wishing that were the only thing wearying me.

“And it’s bedtime now,” she says, pointing to the clock. “The big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the eight.”

Squeezing her tight, I bury my nose into her neck and kiss her cheek with a loud smack. “Love you, girly girl.”

“Love you too, mommly mommy.”

I have to make myself roll out of her bed. After I blow her a kiss from the doorway, I trudge to the den to face my mom.

Before she can say a word, I raise my hand. “I know I screwed up.” After giving my mom the bare bones version of how Henry and I found, lost, and found each other again, I sink into the couch and throw my arms over my face. “Now I have no idea what to do.”

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