Page 3 of Love Lessons

“Huh?” She lifted one eyebrow, an ability she inherited from me—just like her stubborn streak and the tiny gap in her teeth. And though I was blonde and she had dark brown hair, everyone told us she was like my carbon copy, always mentioning our similar chins and noses. There was no denying this kid was mine.

I was momentarily distracted by a notification on my phone. It was from Kendall, a woman I matched with on Tinder, and I knew from our messaging history it was too risky to open this in front of my daughter. So I dropped my phone back into the center console and looked up at Finley in the rearview mirror.

Just as I opened my mouth to explain the words ‘expand’ and ‘palate’ to her, a white sedan pulled up beside my Jeep. My heart dropped to my stomach like it did every single time.

And when I heard Finley’s disappointed moan, it sank even further. “There she is,” I said, feigning a positive tone as I climbed out of the car. I made my way around to Finley’s door. She could unbuckle herself from her high-back booster just fine, but it went a lot faster when she had help. When I reached her, though, she wasn’t moving at all. “Can you go to church with us?” she whispered.

I was afraid she’d ask me that one of these days. Closing my eyes, I leaned against the doorframe. “I can’t, kiddo. This is a you-and-Traci thing.”

“Please?”

God, this was torturous. I hated telling her no. “Traci wants to spend some one-on-one time with you, okay? And church—well, it’s not my thing.” I leaned across her to unbuckle her seatbelt. She still didn’t budge. “And you’ll just be with her for a couple of hours.”

“Okay,” she said, sounding defeated.

I couldn’t see Traci, but I could feel her looming behind me. I scooped Finley up in my arms and turned around. Sure enough, there the woman was—putting a cigarette out with her foot. “Hey there, Finley girl!”

Finley forced a smile. “Hi, Traci.”

Traci’s face fell. “What? When did you stop calling me Mamaw?” She coughed and turned to me. “Did you put her up to that?”

“Of course I didn’t,” I said, but Finley’s sudden switch-up in the way she chose to address the woman didn’t surprise me. The affection between them was almost entirely one-sided.

Ever since Finley’s mother bolted down to Florida with her boyfriend and signed away her parenting rights, I had no obligation to let Traci take Finley to church with her on Sundays. But the woman had good intentions. She couldn’t help it that her daughter was a complete fuck-up. Traci simply wanted to continue being part of Finley’s life, so every Sunday morning, she took her to church and bought her lunch. This had been going on since the start of summer, just a couple months after Whitney’s grand departure from Finley’s life. When I moved back to Woodvale.

My apartment in Indianapolis wasn’t suitable for a 5-year-old. Finley had outgrown her bedroom, which was about the same size as our walk-in closet now. The room had been big enough for her when she was smaller and only living with me on the weekends, but the twin-sized bed I’d bought her took up an entire wall. We needed more space. The girl also deserved a yard to run in, which my apartment complex didn’t offer.

On top of all this, I needed my parents’ support, as much as I hated to admit it. So after just a couple weeks of being a full-time dad, I found myself quitting my illustration job in the city and moving us into my parents’ house in the Woodvale suburbs. The basement level of their home had two bedrooms, its own kitchenette, a living area, and a bathroom—and it was perfect for us.

For now, anyway.

My mom couldn’t be happier to have us there. If it were up to her, both my sister and I and every last one of her grandchildren would be living under one roof with her. Permanently.

As for my dad, I was sure it was just another item on his “reasons why my son is an enormous disappointment” list. This was right up there with my voting record and the tattoos he couldn’t stand to look at.

In fact, moving back home might even top choosing art school over following his footsteps in law school on that list.

I kissed Finley on the forehead after strapping her into her booster seat in Traci’s car. “Be good and have fun, ‘kay? Love you.”

“Love you, Daddy.”

I closed the door and took a deep breath, turning to Traci. “Hey, uh, can I talk to you about something?” My mouth felt dry. I hated confrontations, but when it came to my daughter, sometimes I had no choice but to have some awkward conversations. Traci squinted at me, waiting for me to continue. “Finley said you talked about Whitney last time she was with you…?”

She put her hands on her hips and released a long, drawn-out breath. “I’m sure I did. She’s still my daughter. And even if she refuses to talk to me, her name is going to come up.”

When Whitney escaped to Florida, she ceased all forms of contact with the rest of her family, too. She was determined to leave her life in Indiana behind completely and start over. I knew it was killing Traci, but it hurt Finley even more.

“Well, can you just, you know, tone it down?” I looked her in the eyes, trying to show her how serious this was. “Bringing up her mom all the time and stirring up her emotions about the situation… it’s not helping.”

Part of this deal with Traci was that she couldn’t take Finley back to her house—I didn’t want Finley to be surrounded by pictures of her mom or run into random relatives who might bring up her name. When Whitney signed her rights over to me, she insisted this was it for her—she wouldn’t be returning. Cocoa Beach was calling her name, and she couldn’t take Finley across state lines per our custody agreement.

So of course, she deemed the most rational course of action would be to give Finley up completely. Without the burden of parenthood holding her back, she and her boyfriend could live out their corn dog-truck-owning dreams on the beach with virtually no worries.

It was unfathomable to me.

The first few weeks were hell. Whitney was as good as dead to Finley. Worse, actually—because the kid knew her mom was out there, somewhere, and that she could not see her. I found a therapist in Indianapolis for her to talk to, which was a tremendous help—and the spunky, goofy Finley I knew so well slowly began to resurface. I was beginning to feel a glimmer of hope she would someday heal from the trauma Whitney put her through.

But when we moved to Woodvale and Traci re-entered Finley’s life, it was like all the work she’d done with her therapist vanished the second she saw portraits of her mom on the wall at Traci’s house. It was a nightmare trying to console her after her first outing with Traci. That’s when I made the difficult decision to shield Finley from conversations about Whitney as much as I could. There was no need to continuously reopen the wounds and force her to grieve her mom all over again.

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