Page 35 of Spoil
Daniel’s been texting me snippets randomly that make me think he’s reading my journal for him. I’m so glad Cara suggested it. I know it won’t make up for missing out on years of your child’s life, but I hope it can mend that wound a little. The thought of him was always there with us through every moment, even if he was just a few years late in being there in person.
Every Sunday we have what we call “family dinner”. It’s a tradition my dad and I started when things started to get too hectic. I was busy with gymnastics several times a week, then when I was a teenager, I wanted to talk to my friends on the phone in the evenings or hang out with them on the weekends. No matter how busy life got, though, we always had Sunday dinners together - no phones, no screens, no distractions. I honestly think they kept us close in those years where teenage hormones threatened to pull us apart.
Only family dinners look a little different now because Gen’s bedridden. Instead, I make our dinners and serve them on trays that we take up to her room. Her bed is big enough that Graceand Chastity can sit on it with her. Danny takes the chair in the corner, and I lounge on the floor.
Like normal, Grace, Chastity, and Gen talk about the country club charity gala the girls went to last week, what rich bachelors look promising, who danced with whom, who flirted with who, and what they’re going to wear to the Governor’s ball in two weeks.
And like most family dinners, I make funny faces at Danny, who tries to hide her giggles behind her hands. I’ve never been interested in charity galas or balls. I’ve never thought about another man after Daniel. And honestly, when I thought about him all these years since that one night together, it caused a dull ache in my chest that feels a lot like longing, and a sadness I just didn’t have time to entertain.
We finish the lasagna, and I balance Gen’s tray on top of mine as the rest of us file out of her room and back into the kitchen. Danny climbs up onto the barstool by the island and resumes coloring in her coloring book.
My phone lights up, and I set the trays down to pick it up.
Daniel: I have a date idea I think Danny would really like. Can I take you guys out this Wednesday?
I smile. I can’t help it. He makes me feel light, happy, hopeful. I don’t know what a future with him will look like, but if he keeps wanting to spend time with us, take us out on dates, and get to know us, I think the future looks pretty damn bright.
“Damn. What’s got you smiling like that, sis?” Chastity asks. She says the word ‘sis’ with a tightness I’ve never gotten used to. I don’t know if maybe Gen or my dad asked her to call me that, and she resents it, or is using it sarcastically, but I’ve always ignored the tone. Sisters fight, right? Sisters get jealous and petty over little things, right? And because they’re your sister, you still love them, regardless.
“My daddy,” Danny answers, before I can lie. “She always smiles like that when she’s thinking about or texting my daddy.” It hits me like a ton of bricks that Danny’s picked up on that.
I fight a wince. I wasn’t prepared to tell them about Daniel just yet, but it’s better not to lie.
“You found him?” Grace seems genuinely excited about the prospect.
“I... did...” I don’t want to give too much away, and that check is still burning a hole in my purse.
“Good,” Chastity says, knocking her hip into mine as I unload the trays and put the dirty dishes into the sink to wash. “Now he can pay you all the child support he owes you.”
I wince again. Because us finding Daniel is so much more than just money. It’s a father-figure, a partner, a co-parent if nothing else. It’s a second chance at something that has the potential to be really beautiful. It’s...happiness.
“It’s still new... we’re still figuring things out...” I hedge, well aware of Danny’s astute gaze watching the entire interaction, and the check still burning a hole in my purse.
“Don’t let him off easy. You might not like money, but the rest of us do.”
And just like that, I know I was right in hiding the check from them. They think they’re entitled to a portion of it because we’re family. And they’re not wrong. If I have money and can help pay off the mortgage, I think it’s my duty to do so . But I can also see them wanting to spend it on things that aren’t necessary, like designer dresses and shoes for the governor’s ball.
“You should invite him to family dinner sometime. He is family now, isn’t he? I’d like to meet the man who knocked up my baby sis in one go,” Grace adds.
I’m about to change the subject when they make some excuse for why they need to go to bed early for their beauty sleep, and I let out a sigh of relief.
I put on some light music as I start washing the dishes. My sisters aren’t bad people; they were just raised differently than me. They were raised to value material goods and what people can give them over genuine connection.
Unless, of course, I’m just making excuses for them.
Regardless, they’re my family. And family comes first.
“What’s child support?” a small voice from behind me asks. I let my hands drop into the soapy water as I consider my response for a moment.
I internally debate with myself how much is too much to put on a four-year-old’s shoulders? She has no concept of money or what a normal family looks like.
But then, I’ve always been honest with her.
“Traditionally, a family is two parents and a child. Generally, the two parents live together and work together to raise the child. They’re a team. When that doesn’t happen, one parent helps the other by sending money to help take care of the child every month. That’s called ‘child support’. We didn’t have that because we couldn’t find your daddy.” I wipe my hands off on a towel and walk around the corner of the island, running my hand down Danny’s soft brown hair.
“Don’t tell anyone, but your daddy already sent me money. Way more money than we could ever need. The minute he found out about you. He was so happy to help.” I don’t care about the money, and I don’t want her to care about the money, either. I just want her to know that her father did the right thing the minute he could, and that means more to me than he’ll ever know. And that’s the part of this story I want her to know. That her father did the right thing, without question, the moment he could. That’s the kind of man he is.
“What are you going to do with the money?” she asks, as a seriousness no four-year-old should have to endure settles over her features.
