Page 4 of Kansas Keeper
Somehow, I’m even more nervous driving up to the Hayes’ household this morning. Last night, upon my arrival, I’d had a tiny sliver of hope that they might be open to allowing me to spend some time with our daughter. Now, I know that isn’t the case.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my linen trousers as I climb their front porch steps. The book I left by the swing is gone, so that must be a good sign.Right? Unless they threw it straight into the trash.
Perhaps Mrs. Hayes is more rational and caring than her grumpy husband, and she talked some sense into him.
Deciding that whether they want me here or not, my daughter is really the only thing that matters, I lift my finger and press the doorbell button. A lengthy silence greets me.
It’s a bit eerie. This seems like a house that should have a big, friendly dog. I’m surprised they don’t have one.
Suddenly, a sound from the back yard wafts on the light breeze in my direction. It’s a high-pitched tinkling of laughter.
I close my eyes, tip my head back, and savor the sound of it.Is that my little girl? It has to be, right?
An entire team of angry sumo wrestlers couldn’t hold me back from finding the source of that sound. Suddenly, the familiar saying ‘music to my ears’ takes on a whole new meaning.
When I circle the back corner of the house, the sight I encounter stops me in my tracks. Breath clogs in my throat as I gaze at the precious little girl giggling on her wooden playset.
I must make a noise because both father and daughter turn to look in my direction. The father’s gaze is annoyed, but with a resigned edge, while the little girl’s is purely curious.
The child is the first to regain her senses from my sudden appearance. In a friendly, yet cautious tone, she says, “Hi.”
The gap-toothed smile she gives me after the simple greeting practically bowls me over. She’s the most adorable tiny human I’ve ever encountered. I might be a bit biased, but I can’t imagine that there’s a cuter child in the entire world. She’s utter perfection.
Her little eyebrows and pink bow lips form a concerned pout, making me realize I’ve been gaping at her for too long. Trying my best to act normal, despite the blood pounding in my ears, I respond, “Hi.”
The word comes out croaky and strained, which does nothing to alleviate her worried look. She shifts her gaze to her dad to gauge his reaction.
Since he seems to be as frozen in place as I am, she turns back to me and asks, “Who are you?”
“Oh, I uh––” Of course, it’s a logical question that I should have anticipated, but my mind is completely blank.
It’s not like I can confuse her by telling her that I’m her birth mom. I’m unsure if she is even aware that she was adopted. I would hate to upset her in any way, plus I don’t want to jeopardize my chances of forging a relationship with Mrs. Hayes that might leave room for me to spend some time with the little girl.
Both sets of eyes are staring at me, obviously expecting a response, so I finally say, “I’m a friend of your mom and dad’s.”
This answer makes the child’s face scrunch up in confusion before she says, “My mommy is dead. She had canth-er.”
Her adorable pronunciation of the c-word doesn’t make the disease any less devastating. I’m horrified that I have so royally messed up this integral first interaction so quickly. It couldn’t be going much worse, even if I was trying to make it a total fiasco.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” I turn pleading eyes to her father, but he is openly glaring at me as if I have torn into a barely healed wound.
“It’s okay,” the child assures me. “I miss her lots, but not as much as Daddy does.”
Her earnest honesty is absolutely heart wrenching. If I thought I cared about her before, it’s nothing compared to the rush of warm, protective love that is washing over me now.
That overwhelming emotion must be shining in my eyes because the father quickly turns to his daughter and says, “Time for us to go inside, Embry.”
“Embry?” I breathe out the beautiful name that fits the precocious child so well.
Not putting up a fuss about stopping her play time, the child uses the bright yellow slide to glide down to the ground and walks right up to me.
“Embry Grace Hayes,” she says in a tiny, matter-of-fact voice.
It’s too much. The world swirls before me as my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest. I crumple to my knees and feel strong, masculine arms catch me as my head lolls to the side with the most perfect name I’ve ever heard falling from my lips… “Embry Grace.”
5
BECKETT
