Page 19 of Lillian

“From the ice cream shop?”Nosy little shit.

“Yes, from the ice cream shop,” I agree, even though he didn’t actually have ice cream with us.

“Do you like him?” Not for the first time, I wonder how in the world toddlers can be so intuitive and yet so unaware. As is my go-to for a lot of grown-up conversations with my daughter, I try to deflect.

I throw my elbow up on the back of the couch and rest my head on my hand. “Why would you ask that?”

She shrugs. “If you like him, can he be my dad?” Be still my freaking heart. Where is this coming from?

“No sweets, he’s not going to be your dad. We used to be friends, but we haven’t talked to each other in a really long time.” Her bottom lip juts out a little like I’ve just given her bad news. “Why do you want him to be your dad?”

“All the other kids have dads,” she mutters, and my throat tightens. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I look up to dry them before they fall. Grace, my precious baby, who I would walk over hot coals for, hasn’t ever talked about wanting a dad.

“I know, baby. And I’m so sorry. But I’m here for you, and I love you so much. You know that, right?” I ask her. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t promise her a dad. I can’t invalidate how she’s feeling. She’s four, for crying out loud. It’s a hard concept foradultsto deal with.

Another nod, but she doesn’t perk up like she usually does when I tell her I love her. “What’s wrong?” I coo, dropping a gentle hand on her head and tucking her hair behind her ear.

“You can’t go with me to the dance, Mommy. It’s for daddy’s.” Just like that, I remember pulling a piece of paper out of her backpack a week or two ago that said something about a daddy/daughter dance. I didn’t even read it. Saw it, and then threw it away.

“Sure I could. I bet other kids with no daddy’s have their mom’s going,” I reason.

“I don’t want you to,” she grumbles back, and damn, if that doesn’t hurt a little.

“Maybe Uncle Jimmy will go with you,” I say, sure that Kim’s husband would absolutely take Grace to the dance. He adores her.

The sigh that comes from my four year old sounds a million years old. “Okay. But I need a daddy,” she tells me patiently, like I’m the toddler, and it’s time to pony up and start looking for a partner. She climbs off the couch, cup in hand, and heads off to her room. A cascade of noise a minute later tells me she’s dumped her toy bin and the room is about to be absolutely wrecked in five minutes flat.

I need a drink.

It painsme to admit that I’ve stared at my cell phone screen for much too long after sending the text to the number Vince gave me. The internal debate—text her, don’t text her—was agonizing in itself, but I decided to damn it all to hell and put myself out there.

If I’m going to get her back, it has to be me making the first move. Or moves. And apologies. She’s got a lifetime worth of apologies ahead of her.

At one point, I see three bubbles pop up like she’s typing back, and my heart races as I wait for a message to come through. Only, it doesn’t. The bubbles stop, and crickets are all that follows.

Ouch.

Can’t say I blame her, though. The Lillian I knew would have sent back athank youright away. It’s maybe a little bit what I was banking on, but I seem to have underestimated the grudge she’s held onto for four years.

Still, I’m a little let down that I didn’t at least get a picture of little Grace using the tent I got her. I took a gamble and guessed Lillian may have passed on her love ofDisneymovies to her daughter. And, okay. Sure. I got maybetooexcited shopping throughDisneymerchandise for Grace. But I’ll deny that if anyone asks.

Just as I start to formulate a follow-up text in my head, my phone lights up with an incoming call. There’s only a little pang of disappointment that it isn’t Lil, but that feeling is followed by more than enough guilt when I see it’s my sister. Looking at today’s date on my phone before answering, I curse that I let it get to four days between phone calls this time. Lillian’s sudden reappearance in my life has been distracting, to say the least.

I pick up the call before it gets sent to voicemail. “Hey, Becca.”

“Hey,big brother,”she drawls in a semi-annoyed way that makes me feel even worse for not calling her sooner.

I wince. “How are you?”

“Oh… you know. Lonely,” she whines.

“Listen, I’m so sorry I haven’t called–” Her tinkling laugh cuts me off.

“Wow. You’re too easy. I’m kidding. I’m sure you’re very busy. Important lawyer shit to deal with and what not.” The laughter in her voice does ease the guilt.

“Language,” I admonish half-heartedly. It’s more out of habit than actually giving a damn. An adage passed on from our parents. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, is one I’ll actively try to avoid. Lest I be anything like those assholes.

“Sure, sure,” she says. The eye-roll is implied. “So what’s new with you, big bro?”

---