Page 93 of A Manny for Christmas

‘But your kids…’ He sighs and squeezes my waist. ‘I feel awkward saying this—I’m a lot more nervous than I was just now, when I told you I loved you, because that’s, well, obvious. But I adore your kids, and the past few weeks have been about getting to know them and seeing if I can actually look after them properly. Seeing if I’m up to the job. If Ideservethem.’

I twist my head so I can look him in the eye.

Gape at him, more accurately.

‘But… surely you weren’t thinking any of this when you first arrived?’

He laughs and shakes his head. ‘No. God, no. Although I did spend most of my time trying not to think about you. About the pull I still felt towards you. With your kids, it was more about survival at first. About helping you out and not letting you down. And then it was about mucking around with them. Purely at face value, with no ulterior motive, I found myself enjoying their company.’

‘You’re good with them,’ I tell him, trying to keep that sharp, bright light of hope that’s unfurling in my heart under control. ‘You know how to have fun with them—it seems to come naturally to you.’

‘Probably because my maturity levels are closer to theirs than yours are.’ He plants a tender kiss on my shoulder before rubbing his nose and mouth over the skin there.

I nudge him. ‘Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a natural. I’m so busy processing them all the time that I don’t allow enough time to actually enjoy it.’

‘Said every mother ever, I suspect,’ he says into my skin. He raises his face, leaning his chin on my shoulder, and I turn and rub my nose with his. ‘And don’t forget how hard you work, Mol. It’s not that you’re “failing to allow” yourself enough time to have fun with them, it’s that you have no bloody time.’ His voice grows soft. Low. ‘I’d like to help with that. I’d like to be there to do some of the heavy lifting so you get more time with them. They’re great kids. You’ve done an incredible job with them.’

‘They are great,’ I concede. ‘Daisy’s such a firecracker, and I hope she holds onto that—even though I also hope her impulse control improves at some point.’

‘She’s four. She’s not supposed to give a shit what anyone else thinks. That’s the thing I love most about her.’

‘You… love her?’ I ask.

He pulls his face away from my shoulder so he can look me in the eyes properly. ‘Yeah. I’m getting there. I’m definitely falling for your kids, Mol. How could I not? They’re a part of you. But I’m also holding myself back, because, at the end of the day, they’re not my children. And I don’t want to barge in and assume I have any right to be a part of their lives, so I have to protect myself, too. And I don’t want them getting attached to me, either, if there’s no future for us.’

My heart beats almost out of my chest at what Max is admitting. I needed these words years ago, but now he’s saying them. And it almost feels more special that he’s sitting here, asking to make a commitment to my two real, live children who are very much fully formed and in existence, rather than committing to a theoretical future baby.

Because every adult who makes the decision to be a parent does it on blind faith, really, with no fucking clue what they’re letting themselves in for. Am I right? No matter how life-changing, how exhilarating parenthood is, it’s also bloody exhausting.

Max has seen that with his own eyes. Only for a few weeks, mind you, and in a limited fashion, but he’s literally had the job of caring for young children kick him in the face. He’s already had the battle wounds.

‘What are you saying, exactly?’ I ask, because I can’t risk misinterpreting this conversation even the slightest bit.

‘I’m saying I’d like to have a shot at the four of us being, you know. A family.’ He meets my eyes cautiously, like he’s afraid I’ll laugh him out of town. There’s vulnerability on his face. In his words. In the way he’s saying those words.

I inhale sharply, because, honestly, I never expected this. I fantasised about it, yes, in some deep part of my soul that doesn’t care about the probability of its creations becoming fact, doesn’t care about how much it will hurt to let myself even entertain these fantasies.

But if Sadie, or Clara, or someone well-meaning had sat me down this morning, gun to my head, and asked me to guess at the likely outcome of thisthingwith Max, I would have curled my fists into tight little balls of pain, and clenched my jaw, and admitted that I saw him buggering off to Africa again.

That it was inevitable that he’d bow back out of our lives as graciously, charmingly, as he’d waltzed in.

That we’d be left heartbroken and bereft and all-too acutely feeling the void his absence left.

At absolute best, I’d have envisaged a heartbreaking conversation with Max where I begged him to give us some kind of shot. To stay and see where we could take this, to attempt some kind of compromise that involved him accepting my kids but just, you know, dating me for a while.

Instead, it seems like he wants to date my kids.

Court them.

I nestle my face into the crook of his neck, because it’s easier, somehow, to broach this conversation without making eye contact. Without us stripping ourselves quite so bare. My tears pool saltily on his collarbone.

‘I’m trying not to get my hopes up,’ I admit into his neck. ‘Because I don’t get it. Yeah, you’ve been amazing with the kids—a godsend, really. And these past few weeks have been heaven for me. But’—I stroke a palm over the light hair and warm skin and taut muscle of his chest—‘this is a massive one-eighty, sweetie. I mean, it’s all I’ve ever wanted from you. And you told me you didn’t want it, and I believed you. You felt so strongly you let me walk away, for God’s sake. So how am I supposed to believe you’ve had such a massive change of heart?’

‘I know.’ He covers my hand with his large one and grips it tightly. ‘That’s a totally fair question. I suppose it started with you, to be honest. I just—there was no way I could walk away from you a second time. I knew that. It wasn’t even an option. So I had some tough questions to ask myself.How can I be with Mol at this point in our lives? Am I cut out to be a family man, after all?

‘And what I found, as I spent time with you, and with the kids, was that I really loved this version of you. I loved what you’d become, I loved seeing you as a mother, and I loved how right it felt, being at the cottage with you guys. You may not realise this, but you’ve given them so much stability. The three of you have a happy, lovely home, and the idea of walking away from that felt truly horrifying.’

He pauses, and I wait.

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