Page 104 of A Game Plan for Love

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“He’s the man who’s shown up,” Addie interrupts, eyes brimming with tears.

My breath catches, but she shakes her head. Not tears from her parents.I love you, too, she mouths, before turning back to her parents.

“He’s the man who takes care of Nora when she’s sick and reads her bedtime stories. Who has made sure she’ll never need anything in her life, and nurtures her hopes and dreams. The partner who has taught me to dream again; who picks me up on bad days and tells me it’s okay to let someone take care of me, because for the last five years, I’ve hadno oneto take care of me.”

Cora chokes on a sob, and John question himself as she continues. I take her hand in mine. Her responding smile is watery and small, but she sets her shoulders and continues.

“You two should have taken care of me, but instead, I was on my own. Until I met Declan.” She squeezes my palm. “I am here becauseheconvinced me you two were worth a second chance, but it doesn’t seem like much has changed in five years.”

Her sigh is resigned and full of anguish. Even after everything, she hoped for more from them. Cora is sobbing in earnest now, and John looks stricken by his daughter's words. Maybe it’s the absence of family in my youth, or the pure devastation on everyone’s faces at the table—Addie included—that stops me from whisking her away.

What is family if not a complex, complicated web of people who love each other? People who make mistakes and say the wrong things, make poor choices, and regret their decisions. Does the mess outweigh the love shared?

“I-I’m sorry,” John says again, taking his wife’s hand the same way Addie is holding mine.

Against my better judgment, I extend one last olive branch.

“I don’t think this is how anyone wanted this to go,” I say gently. Cora nods rapidly, and John inclines his head. I’m wary of him, but all the hostility is gone as he watches his daughter fiddle with her napkin. “Why don’t we start again?”

Though I hoped for more, I texted Sharon and asked for tips on how to navigate this meeting if it started on the wrong foot. Now, we’re going to put her advice to the test.

“We miss you,” Cora says, sniffling and rubbing away her tears. “We made a mistake—there’s not a day that’s gone by where we haven’t regretted what I said and how we turned our backs on you.”

“Why did you?” Addie’s question is barely audible, but it holds years of hurt.

“We were shocked, and surprised, and…” she heaves a sigh, “stubborn. You were so special, and on a path for great things, and it felt like you were throwing your life away.”

Addie draws a sharp breath. “Having Nora wasnotthrowing my life away. She’s one of the greatest things to ever happen to me.”

Her hazel eyes meet mine, and she silently conveys the second half of her statement with a soft smile.You’re one of the great things, too,her look seems to say.

“We know,” John says, “And that choice cost us five years of memories. We don’t want to lose anymore with you, or Nora. There is nothing we can say or do to make-up for the time we lost due to our choices.”

“Why did you never reach out and apologize?” I ask. Five years is a long time to stay silent, and then suddenly want to re-enter their lives.

“We tried.” John sighs. “About a month after Nora was born, we tried to text you. It was never answered, so we gave you space, but we’ve tried to reach out over the years.”

Addie’s face crumples, and she whispers words that slice like a white hot blade. “I begged you to come when I was in labor, pleaded through contractions for my parents. Left a dozen voicemails.”

There’s no response at the table. What can you say to absolve yourself from the choices you made?

The waiter's eyes widen slightly before a blanket of neutrality falls over them as they set our plates down in front of us. I incline my head slightly, as if to sayyou can skip your check-in, and he nods, darting away from the tense, somber air surrounding our table.

When I look back, Addie shovels fries in her mouth like someone is going to snatch them away, and her parents pick at their pasta.

“That’s a shameful choice we will live with for the rest of our lives,” Cora chokes out, hesitantly reaching a hand out toward Addie. When she doesn’t pull away, Cora places her hand on top of Addie’s. “I should have been there. Holding your hand. Feeding you ice chips. Helping you through contractions. They day you entered the world was the greatest day of my life, and I should have been there when you experienced the same.”

“I have a suggestion,” I say, focused on arranging a layer of fries onto my burger. When I have their attention, I continue, “There’s a lot of trauma and built-up resentment here, as well as a collapse of communication. It’s impossible to fix anything overnight, but I’m proposing virtual therapy to work through the past and find a path for us to move forward.”

Addie lets her head fall on my shoulder momentarily, and her greasy hand falls to my thigh, squeezing and leaving fingerprints on my trousers. I bite back a smile.

“You’re a good man,” she whispers, “I wish I got to tell you I love you in some grand way, but I do. Love you with my whole heart and soul. The zing is never wrong.”

I kiss the top of her head, holding back the words I want to tell her. It’s not the time or place, and we deserve to revel in the moment.

“We’d like that very much,” Cora says, and John nods.

---