Feeling oddly displaced, my current headspace won’t allow me to face either parent right now. My curiosity is fueling my need for more answers.
I can’t tonight. Tomorrow ok?
Mom: Sure. Love you. If I’m off the cooking hook, please tell your father to pick up Chinese on the way home.
Will do. X
I message her again as amplifying guilt continues to surround my heart.
I love you, Mom.
Mom: Love you too. By the way, if you’re curious, you were well worth the hellacious sixteen-hour labor but it’s also the reason why you’re an only child.
My heart warms as I recall the story of Mom’s nightmare in delivering me, her finish to the story the best part. As many times as I’ve heard and memorized what she refers to every year as “our day,” I’m not as versed in the story of my parents’ coupling. I’ve never really paid much attention in the adult way. Whenever it was brought up in the past, I always did the typical fake gag routine. Now I wish I had paid closer attention. As it is now, any outsider within a few feet of them can see they love and respect each other, deeply. It’s obvious.
So why is this revelation affecting me so profoundly?
Why did my instincts tell me to lie to her—other than the fact it’s not a subject to broach via text message.
Even so, why am I so afraid to outright ask my father, who just so happens to be the best source?
As I try to reason with myself, I’m terrified of what my gut is saying—my dad wouldn’t have kept their relationship hidden unless he wanted it that way.
It’s one thing to have an ex. It’s another thing entirely to have an ex who went on to marry a world-famous rock star.
Mom has to know. She has to. There’s no way they didn’t have the ex-talk. All couples do at some point, right?
Dad is painfully frank, which some may consider a character flaw, but one which I proudly inherited. Regardless of that, every part of the journalist he cultivated in me is dying to walk across the hall for answers. But this isn’t someone else’s story. It’s fact-checking his personal past that has me chickening out.
Not to mention the fact that the ancient emails have me questioning the authenticity of my parents’ start so soon after his heartbreak and scrutinizing the timeline.
By my quick calculation, my parents married a year after they met. Just a few months ago, they celebrated their twenty-third anniversary. The question of my legitimacy is asinine because I came into the picture months after they wed, a souvenir they created on their month-long honeymoon.
The alarming part is that I deeply felt Stella and my father’s connection while reading. I’m positive if I read more—especially during the thick of their relationship—I would feel it on an even more visceral level. I fear it may haunt me if I don’t get the full story.
Just ask him, Natalie. He’s feet away!
But something about the lingering ache I feel as a spectator after simply reading a dozen or so emails keep me from doing so.
I just inadvertently opened Pandora’s box—a box that doesn’t belong to me, a box I had no right to open.
Far too tempted to go back in, I drag my finger along the screen with the file and linger over the trash, flicking my focus back to Dad as I do so. Confusion, anger for him, and curiosity war in my head as I drag the file away from the trash and opt to hide the email chain in a desktop file before closing out the window.
Nervous energy coursing through me, stomach roiling, I glance around the bustling and recently renovated warehouse Dad converted into a newsroom when he started the paper. A u-shape of executive offices outlines the floor of the small warehouse, one of which I’ve occupied since graduating last spring.
In the center of the floor that Dad nicknamed ‘the pit’ sits rows upon rows of columnists’ desks. Scanning the desks, my eyes land on Herb, an Austin Speak staple who was one of Dad’s first hires. Herb is in his late sixties now and comes in on a part-time basis. At this point, it’s safe to say he’s more of a fixture than an integral part of the paper. Though that’s the case now, he was present then and undoubtedly laid witness to Stella and my father’s relationship.
Standing abruptly—without a clue as to how I’ll approach it—I take a step toward my office door when my dad pauses across the pit, sensing my movement in his peripheral. He glances over at me, his lips lifting and forming his signature smile. Unable to school myself in time, his brows draw when he reads my expression.
Stay cool, Natalie.
Doing my best to ease the conflict inside, I muster a reassuring smile, but I can already tell it’s too late. Dad’s features etch in concern as he mouths an “Okay?”
Nodding repeatedly, I wave my hand dismissively before grabbing my coffee cup and making a beeline for the breakroom. Acting plays a small part in being a journalist, if only as an exercise in composure. People are less inclined to give you what you need if you seem too eager. At the same time, too much confidence can cause a similar issue—dissuading trust.
It’s a balance and consistent exercise in composure until you reach the level where your name is more valuable and you have enough accolades as a journalist to be sought after, like Oprah, Diane Sawyer, or Stella Emerson Crowne.
Leaving college wet behind the ears as the daughter of one of the most highly respected editors in journalism, I have a lot to prove to myself and those in my field. Even though I write under my mother’s maiden name as Natalie Hearst, my work for anyone in the field will always be synonymous with Nate Butler and his well-established and credible paper. I have so much to live up to, considering my father took the magazine from an ad-dependent paper to a next-level publication. And when he retires, which he insists will be sooner rather than later, it’s up to me to help maintain its integrity.
Though I grew up in the newsroom, Dad’s never pressured me to take it on but is responsible for so much of my love for the written word. Like Dad, my favorite news to report consists mainly of human-interest stories. His own writing journey began with a touching story during a time stamp no one ever forgets—9/11.
Challenged with dyslexia, he pressed on and figured out a way to work around it and carry out his dream to run a newspaper—which is more than admirable. My father is my hero and has been since I was young enough to recognize it. So it was only natural I spent my childhood sitting next to his desk, imitating his every move, typing on one of his old laptops before I could speak. Thanks to Mom, Dad has a dozen or so pride-filled videos of me doing just that to prove it.
My character traits and love for journalism aren’t the only things I inherited from him. My strawberry blonde hair and indigo-colored eyes make our relationship unmistakable when we’re within feet of each other and even when we’re not.
Additionally, Dad has shared so much of himself with me that I know I could recite the milestones in his life in chronological order without much thought. Maybe that’s why I’m so rattled because apparently, there are gaps in his history I was purposely not made privy to. The sudden shift of viewing my dad as a twenty-plus man in love rather than my Little League coach has me reeling.
Of course, my parents had histories before they met and married. Of course, there are parts of their lives they don’t share with their daughter—secrets they plan on taking to their graves—but there’s just something about this particular secret that isn’t settling well with me. At all.
“Natalie?” Alex, our sports columnist prompts, staring up at me from his desk. Empty coffee cup in hand, I gape back at him, confused as to how I ended up lurking above him. “Can I help you with something?”
“J-just wanted to see if you wanted some coffee?” I mumble in shit excuse, lifting my mug as though he’s never seen one.