Page 79 of Harper

Good. I’m so sorry, Joe. I’m so, so sorry about everything. I’m hoping we can talk soon.

I close my eyes, clenching my jaw so tight, it’s a wonder it doesn’t pop. Finally, I write back:

Joe

I have a nine-year-old daughter who has no idea who I am. Who may believe I was complicit in giving her away. Sorry doesn’t mean much to me right now. And I’m nowhere near ready to talk to you.

***

Harper

I understand.

***

Joe

Loop me in on any upcoming appointments.

To be clear: I want this baby, Harper. I’m going to be active in his or her life.

***

Harper

I know. I want that, too.

***

Joe

I think that talking about the baby should be the extent of our interaction. I don’t need your apologies or questions about how I’m doing.

Those three dots appear again, cycling for a minute, then disappearing. I stare at the screen, hoping my words hurt her and yet, willing a response from her at the same time. Finally, the dots appear again, and I’m waiting on tenterhooks for what she has to say.

Harper

Okay.

I put my phone in my back pocket, crossing my arms over my chest. I think about Moriah Raven and about the baby Harper’s carrying. I think about the fact that Harper almost died all those years ago and wonder if that informed her decision to give our baby away or if she’d already made her decision before she gave birth.

My heart hurts for the pain and fear she must have suffered.

I tell my heart to shut the fuck up.

I could’ve been there for her. I would’ve been there for her. I should’ve been there for her.

But she didn’t offer me that respect, care, or courtesy nine years ago.

I’ll be damned if I offer it to her now.

Chapter 9

Harper

“Joe said he’d meet us here?”

I’m sitting on a bench, outside of the main entrance to the Providence Alaska Children’s Hospital, with Gran on one side of me, and Parker on the other.

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