Page 120 of Who's Your Daddy?

28. Lia

“Okay,” I say, goingdown on all fours. “This is a race to the death, so I hope you’re ready.” I reach over to lift Ambrose’s butt a little. Putting him in the same stance as me. “On your mark...Get set...Go!”

I crawl across the living room, but he stays in place, rocking back and forth on his haunches. We’ve been practicing this since I moved back in three weeks ago and he’s almost got the hang of it. By hang of it, I mean that if he rocks back and forth enough times, he might move backward a few inches.

I reach the other side of the living room and turn to face him again. “Move one hand and then the other,” I say, showing him how to do it.

I grab his favorite toy off the couch, a ninja that dances to Kung Fu Fighting, and use it to entice him to the other side. This is probably the most annoying toy in the world. It plays that same snippet on repeat while flashing green, blue, and red lights through the plastic Sumari sword.

Out of all the toys he has, it’s unfortunate that he’s chosen this one to be his favorite. And he has a shit ton of toys. So many that this house is now unrecognizable. It used to be neat and pristine at all times, but now colorful rubber mats cover the fancy porcelain tiles. Cars and blocks and dinosaurs are littered all over the place. Yet even with that endless array of options, my child chose this stupid ninja. This is proof that nature can override nurture because that distinct proclivity to make bad decisions clearly comes from me.

He gurgles with excitement, rocking with more fervor, and he scoots forward an inch. “That’s it. That’s at least going in the right direction.”

He looks at the singing ninja and I can see the determination on his face when his hand shifts forward. He rocks a few times, then his other hand moves.

“Oh, my God. This is actually happening.” I sit forward and hold my arms out. “C’mon. Come to mommy.” I look around for my phone or Peter and can’t find either of them. “Peter!” I yell and get no response. Keeping my eyes on Ambrose, I stand up and walk backward until I get close to the entrance. “Peter!” Ambrose wobbles forward another inch. “Peter!”

“What!” he shouts from behind me, and I almost jump out of my skin. “Why are you yelling? I thought there was a fire or something.”

I glance back to find him standing in the middle of the foyer. “Sorry, but...I think he’s about to crawl.”

“Really?” He rushes in, grabbing my elbow to drag me back too. “Where’s my phone? Have you seen my phone?”

“No.”

He pats himself down and finds it in his pocket. He focuses his camera on Ambrose and taps the red dot to record. “Can you shut that thing off? It’s so annoying.”

“That’s what he’s crawling toward.”

He looks at me, shaking his head. “I can’t say I’m surprised...but I am disappointed.”

I giggle. Over the last week, he’s softened a tiny bit. Not much, but moments like this one seem to be happening more often. He doesn’t indulge in it. He cuts it off as soon as we start having fun or laughing too much. But when the interaction isn’t just between the two of us and includes Ambrose as well, he at least allows himself to enjoy the moment with me.

I get the occasional joke. Maybe even a smile before he pulls away again. I must admit, I think a part of me would prefer it if he were just distant all the time. Experiencing these random glimpses of what we used to have puts me on such a high that the tumble back down to cold abrasiveness is excruciating. Sometimes just being in the same room as him is unbearable because I so desperately want him to look at me the way he used to.

Seeing the man I love look at me with distrust and contempt and sheer hatred is a pain I can’t even describe, a pain I would never inflict on my worst enemy. I’m used to being lonely. It’s something I’ve felt in some way or another since the day my parents died. But this kind of hollow emptiness is very new.

It's a pain that eats away at me, gnawing so deep I can feel the serrations in my soul. I may have my son back, but not having Peter has left me with a void that seems impossible to fill. I can’t hold him. I can’t kiss him. And I want to so badly. I want to feel his arms around me, feel his lips on my lips, his skin on my skin. I wanthim.

But the distance he maintains puts him far beyond my reach. I can’t get through to him, no matter how hard I try. Each day, it feels like a piece of me is chipped away, leaving me even more broken and lost. This house that was once so warm and inviting now feels like a cold and desolate wasteland. The love that we built within these walls is now just rubble and debris.

But I need to take accountability. All of this is a direct result of my own actions, and I need to accept the consequences. Eventually – not anytime soon but eventually – I’ll come to terms with the fact that he doesn’t love me anymore and maybe the pain will ease just a fraction.

---