“Love you,” he said, and he left a moment later, after I said I loved him, too. When the front door shut and I heard his car start in the driveway, I closed my eyes, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep. But all I saw was the pained look on Brooke’s face when she’d confronted me on the deck—the anger that had flashed in her eyes. All I heard was the way her voice strangled when she spoke. The damage I’d done to her clung to her like a second shadow.
Everything I’d thought about the new life I’d given my children was wrong. Hearing that Natalie hadn’t even known about Brooke until a few months ago, and that my elder child had spent her childhood in foster homes, had sucked all the air from my lungs. I pictured my younger daughter standing next to Brooke last night: Natalie’s blond hair, petite frame, and large, doe-brown eyes, eyes that must have come from her father, a man whose name I’d blanked from my mind, whose face I couldn’t recall. She seemed so capable and strong as she attempted to calm Brooke down. Seeing her like this, I had no doubt that Natalie was a wonderful mother—patient and loving—something she must have learned from the woman who raised her. She certainly didn’t inherit it from me.
I knew in my gut that I couldn’t live up to their expectations, and it only took a moment for me to ruin whatever meet-my-birth-mother fantasies they might have had. I wasn’t strong enough to be their mother when they were babies, when they needed it most, and after my response to seeing them last night, it was clear I couldn’t be strong for them now. What they sought, I couldn’t give them. The truth was, no matter how far I’d come, how much I’d accomplished, a huge part of me was still that young woman who fell apart when she gave up custody of her children. I was still the troubled, unstable girl who thought she heard her daughter’s voice that day in the park. Having them in my life now would only magnify that girl, bring her to the surface again, after I’d worked so hard to keep her contained.
This was how I spent the next forty-eight hours, remembering, crying, and sleeping, burrowing beneath the covers, replaying every moment of the short time my daughters stood in front of me, reliving every one of my past mistakes. As he promised he would, Evan checked on me throughout the day, bringing me water and bits of food.
On the third day, he entered our bedroom about noon, bringing with him half of a turkey sandwich and a glass of ice water, which he set on the night table. He called the dogs off the bed, ordering them outside, then sat down on the edge of the mattress.
I righted myself and leaned against the headboard. He grabbed the water and gave it to me. Obediently, I drank almost half of it and then took two bites of the sandwich before I set it back on the plate. He waited while I got up and walked to the bathroom and then watched as I washed my hands and climbed back in bed.
“You aren’t going to get up?” he asked. “Maybe move to the living room?”
“I’m fine here,” I said. I looked at him with wide, glassy eyes.
“You know you can’t do this forever,” he said.
“I know,” I snapped, and then, regretting my tone, I reached out and grabbed one of his rough-skinned workman’s hands. No matter how well he scrubbed, his cuticles were always slightly darkened by engine grease. “I know,” I said again, softly. “I just need a little more time.”
He stared at me, then squeezed my fingers in return, but didn’t say anything more.
After a moment of silence, I spoke again. “Do you think I did the right thing?” My heart banged inside my rib cage, waiting for his reply.
“That’s not up to me to decide,” he said.
Frustrated by the neutrality of his response, I let go of his hand and pulled my own hands back into my lap, curling them into fists. “Tell me what you think, Evan. Please. I need to hear it. They came here looking for a relationship with me . . . with their mother . . . and I just . . . freaked out. I disappointed them. I hurt them, even more than I already had. I’m a horrible person, right?” Go ahead, I thought. Say it. Confirm everything I already know. All the trained dogs in the world can’t make up for the fact that I abandoned my children. Twice.
Evan ran his fingers through his shaggy silver-brown hair. “No,” he said, and I could tell from his tone he was a little frustrated with me, too. “You’re not. You thought you’d never see them again, but now you have, and this is what happened. You went with exactly how you felt in the moment. It was a genuine reaction. A real one. You were overwhelmed, and scared. You realized you couldn’t handle it. That doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you honest.”