Page 105 of The Good Girl Effect
“Is this my mother’s recipe? Where did you get it?” I ask.
Camille grins sheepishly. “I found it. I hope you don’t mind. Bea told me it was your favorite.”
“It is my favorite,” I reply softly. The aroma of Jade’s lasagna suddenly makes me homesick, which is lovely but also a cruel reminder that I’m supposed to be leaving soon. But how could I?
I haven’t told Camille about my plans to move back to California, and I think in my heart, I set those plans aside when I met her.
This nostalgic reminder filling my kitchen is making me want to revisit that plan. I still want to go back to America. I want to take my daughter back so she can grow up around my family.
Would Camille go with us? Or am I putting an end to this before it’s even started?
As we set the table together, it’s as if I’m being ripped in two. Bea chatters on excitedly without leaving a moment for either Camille or me to talk. She tells me about her day at school and what she learned. When we finally sit down and start to dig in, I stare across the table at Camille. Each of us has a subtle smile on our face, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing I am.
This could work.
“You mentioned your parents are still married then,” she says when Bea finally stops talking long enough to eat.
I dab at my mouth with a napkin as I formulate my response. Speaking about my unique family is something I’m used to, but it still takes consideration.
“My parents are still married,” I say with a nod. She keeps her eyes on me as she waits for me to elaborate. “My mom and my dad…and my other mom.”
Bea kicks her feet under the table, smiling up at me. It’s nothing out of the ordinary for her now.
As for Camille, she’s frozen in place with her fork halfway to her mouth.
“Papa has two mommies and a daddy,” Bea says sweetly.
“Oh,” Camille replies. She puts the bite in her mouth and chews with a contemplative look on her face.
More than anything, she’s probably shocked that a guy who grew up in a home that exemplified love and acceptance struggles with it so much. I’m sure in her imagination, I wasn’t raised in a home with six people who loved each other unconditionally but rather molded in some emotionless factory where I was taught three expressions—brooding, grumpy, and annoyed.
I wouldn’t blame her if she did.
As we eat, I share the story with Camille about how my single mother fell in love with not one but two people. How they made it work because they loved each other, even when the days were hard or my sisters and I faced mockery in school because our family looked different.
“That’s really beautiful,” she says softly while looking at me.
“It is.”
Her immediate acceptance makes my heart hammer loudly in my chest as if it’s demanding attention. It wants me to acknowledge how perfect she is, as if I don’t already notice.
The three of us wash up the dishes after dinner together. The music is playing again, but not as loudly. Bea dries the utensils in her tiny hands as I dry the larger dishes.
It’s a priceless moment, frozen in time, and everything feels perfect,tooperfect. I remember the last time things felt this good. The first year of marriage with Em. She found out she was pregnant. We were over the moon. Everything was perfect, and nothing could bring us down.
Until a blood test came back with frightening results. A happy pregnancy turned into a terrifying one. Even after Bea was born and our world felt so much larger and more beautiful, my wife had to undergo harsh chemo treatments that never worked as hard as the cancer did.
Nothing felt perfect again.
“Papa, will you tuck me in tonight?” Bea asks as she clings to my leg, stealing me from the hurtful memories.
I glance up at Camille, who is still scrubbing the casserole dish. She freezes as she watches me, and I know that in her mind, she’s silently praying that I say the right thing.
I love that my daughter is her first priority.
“Of course I will,” I say, softly stroking my daughter’s head. “I would love to.”
Draping my towel on the counter, I glance back at Camille before taking Bea’s hand and letting her guide me toward her bedroom.
