Authors: A. L. Jackson
“Sorry . . . I . . . um . . . thought you might like to see these.”
She extended her arms, snapping me from my shock as she brought attention to what she held in her hands.
There were three albums, the kind that were perfectly square and filled with hours upon hours of a mother’s artwork.
Elizabeth held them out farther, encouraging me to take them. I shook as I reached a tentative hand out to accept them, my mouth dry and unable to express my gratitude for her gift. As we both held the albums between us, she looked up at me with what could only be described as sympathy, a tenderness that broke my heart and healed it at the same time. She nodded as she withdrew her hands and then turned and rushed upstairs.
Acute anxiety and severe longing filled my chest as I thought of facing what was inside, the albums an oppressive weight. I slowly moved to the couch and placed five years of memories on my lap, memories I wasn’t sure I was ready to face. I ran my fingertips over the brown cover and struggled to find the courage to open it. It took five full minutes before I did. The muted glow from the lamp on the end table shed enough light to illuminate what the first page held—a birth announcement.
Elizabeth Grace Ayers
Born May 23
rd
at 4:37 am
.
18.5” long
5 pounds 3 ounces
Breathtaking—heartbreaking.
Tears fell and there was nothing I could have done to stop them.
In my hands was the image of an infant child, her face red and new, her tiny mouth pursed. Even then, her gray-blue eyes were wide and expressive. A mass of shiny, black hair sat atop her head, my cleft marking her chin.
My daughter.
My fingers traced the picture.
So small.
I flashed back to the day I’d seen Elizabeth before she’d given birth—how thin, even sickly she’d appeared. Now to know Lizzie had been so small, it sent reality crashing down on me. My stomach twisted, my head spun, and sweat broke out across my forehead. Elizabeth hadn’t just
looked
sick, she
was
sick. I’d left her when she was sick.
I was a monster.
I choked on the lump in my throat and forced myself to turn the page—snapshots of a swaddled baby asleep in the hospital nursery, rocking in Matthew’s arms, pressed to her mother’s breast. The last was by far the most beautiful, the way Elizabeth held her daughter as if she’d found the world because she knew she had.
And I had missed it.
Each page showcased my daughter’s life, every milestone I had missed—first food, first step, first word, first birthday. Lizzie grinned at the camera with a pointy cap on her head, two
teeth on top and two on the bottom, and a round cake with one candle sitting in front of her—surrounded by those who loved her.
I wasn’t there.
Images of a chubby-cheeked little girl, running, playing, always smiling filled the next pages. More birthdays, more Christmases, Easters, every celebration—five years of life.
And I wasn’t there because I had abandoned my family.
But when I turned to last page of the last album,
I was
. Lizzie sat on my lap with her arms around my neck, showering me in undeserved love as she thanked me for a birthday gift I’d had no idea if she’d even like.
Worse than seeing what I had missed was knowing what had to have been left out of those pages, what wasn’t put on display. Every sleepless night, every worry, every fear. Failures and missed goals. Heartache, every tear shed.
Swept away in grief, I tried to bury my regret in the pillow Elizabeth had left for me on the couch. It only smelled of her. I pressed my face deeper, trying to drown out years of sorrow and loss, to conceal the devastation tearing me apart. It felt like death, five years slain by selfishness and stupidity.
Who of us had paid the biggest price? The beautiful child who shone like heaven on every page, her smile joy—her face peace? Her mother, the one betrayed, the one who had worked so hard, loved so much that she had raised a child such as this? In the end, I knew it had to be me. I was the one who had lost, the one who had lived without, the one who was a fool to have ever imagined
anything
could have been better than this.
Without a doubt, I didn’t deserve to be here, to wrap myself up in the comfort of the blanket Elizabeth provided, to rest my head on the pillow that could only have come from her bed, to accept her kindness as she allowed me into her home.
Most of all, I didn’t deserve the love of Lizzie.
The night I’d fallen apart after Elizabeth had first allowed me to see Lizzie, I’d thought I’d understood, but I’d had no idea. The truth was, I never would. I wasn’t there and I would never really know. And there was nothing I could do to earn that time back. Even if Elizabeth forgave me, I didn’t think I could ever forgive myself.
As much sorrow as these stilled memories brought me, I couldn’t help but cherish the veiled experience, thankful to have a glimpse into life while I wasn’t really living at all. I lamented those years and hugged Elizabeth’s pillow close as I took comfort in her scent, took comfort in her presence as I praised her for sharing the life I’d chosen not to be a part of—praised her for being brave enough to allow me to be a part of it now.
That presence grew stronger, palpable. I jerked up when I realized I wasn’t alone, my eyes drawn to her. Elizabeth stood clinging to the railing at the top of the stairs, watching down over me, tears staining her face. Neither of us said anything aloud, though my heart spoke a thousand regrets, every one of them a plea for forgiveness I could never deserve.
In her eyes, I saw what I desired most.
Elizabeth cared for me—hurt for me—loved me.
I stared back and poured everything I had into that moment, praying for once she wouldn’t question that I did too.
She closed her eyes and took two steps back, uncertainty and fear flowing from the corners, exposing a wounded heart that had forgotten how to trust but hadn’t forgotten how to love.
~
I shifted deeper into the warmth, refusing to let go of the comfort of Elizabeth’s lingering presence as I buried my face in her pillow and pulled the blanket tighter around my body. An unfamiliar nudging stirred me, dragging me from what I was sure were the two best hours of sleep I’d ever had.
“Wake up, Daddy.” A tiny giggle sounded close to my ear.
I rolled from my stomach to my side and then opened my eyes to paradise.
Lizzie leaned over me, grinning.
I blinked the sleep away, smiling as I focused in on the precious child in front of me. She still wore her nightgown but none of the pain from the night before.
“Hi, baby girl,” I rasped out, my throat raw from lack of sleep and hours of uncontained remorse. “Come here.” I lifted the blanket, inviting her to crawl in beside me. After last night, I needed to hold my daughter. She felt perfect as she settled next to me and rested her head on the pillow. I placed a kiss on her forehead before ghosting fingertips over the now bruised skin over her eye.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?”
“I’m almost all better. My arm only hurts a little bit.” Her fingers grazed over my chest as she flexed and extended her fingers in a show of recovery.
My chest swelled with emotion, her nearness eliciting a haunting sadness from the night before and an overwhelming appreciation for the grace I’d been given that allowed me to hold her this way today.
Her eyes burned, her child-like innocence overshadowed by a sudden deep awareness. “Daddy, what’s wrong?” The same swollen fingers reached out to caress my cheek in undeserved affection I would never take for granted.
“Nothing’s wrong, princess. Everything is perfect.”
And just like that, the child was back. Her eyes were alight as she wiggled out of my grasp and onto her feet. “Come on, Daddy. Breakfast is almost ready,” she said, attempting to drag me from the couch with her good arm
Her statement set my senses in motion. The smell coming from the kitchen aroused memories from long ago—bacon, eggs, and biscuits. My mouth watered and my stomach growled. Nobody made breakfast like Elizabeth.
Lizzie tugged on my hand again, clearly as excited over her mother’s breakfast as I was. With no resistance, I allowed Lizzie to lead me into the kitchen only to have my footsteps falter at the sight in front of me.
Elizabeth stood at the stove with her back to us, wearing black pajama bottoms and a matching tank top. Her blonde hair was pinned up in a messy bun at the base of her neck. Errant pieces had fallen out and toppled down her back. She was barefoot, glowing, and gorgeous.
I struggled to breathe through the intense longing that coursed through my body.
She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, flashing another genuine smile. “Good morning.”
She turned back to her work, leaving me to whisper a barely audible good morning in return when really I wanted to sing.
Elizabeth spooned what looked to be more than a dozen scrambled eggs into a bowl from a frying pan. “You’d better be hungry. I made enough food to feed an army.” Her tone was light, maybe even cheerful, as if the intensity from last night had long since been forgotten.
It struck me how natural it would seem to walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist, to lean over her shoulder and place a good morning kiss on her cheek, to tell her I loved her.
Instead, I said, “Starving.”
“Good.” She opened the oven door and leaned over to pull out a pan of homemade biscuits.
I had to look away, and my roving eyes drifted to the small table in the kitchen nook. It was set for five. Suddenly, I became very uncomfortable.
“Uh, Elizabeth?”
“Yeah?” She stopped placing biscuits in a basket to look in my direction.
I gestured toward the table with my head. “Are you expecting company?”
Understanding dawned on her face. “Yeah, Matthew and Natalie come for breakfast every Sunday morning.”
I roughed a hand through my hair. No further confrontations had taken place between Matthew and me since Lizzie’s birthday, but I wouldn’t say we were exactly friendly, either. I’d only seen him a handful of times in passing as I’d been picking up Lizzie or dropping her off, but each time he’d watched me with both suspicion and disdain.
Elizabeth looked at me as if she knew exactly what I was thinking. She pointed toward the bathroom. “You’d better hurry up and get changed. They’ll be here any minute.”
I knew then that I’d better get over it if I was going to be a part of Lizzie’s life.
I was only in the small bathroom long enough to change into the clothes I’d worn the day before, brush my teeth, and to run wet hands through my hair in an attempt to tame the disaster on my head, but when I stepped out, Matthew and Natalie were already there.
From the archway, I watched the profuse apology Matthew gave Elizabeth while he held Lizzie in his arms, almost breathless in his explanation. “Elizabeth, I’m so sorry. Nat and I were at the movies last night and I’d turned off my phone. I didn’t get the message until just before we got over here.”
Elizabeth tried to stop him. “Matthew . . . honestly . . . It was fine. Don’t worry about it.”
Elizabeth’s reassurance did nothing to ease his remorse. He hugged Lizzie to him. “I’m so sorry, Lizzie.” He seemed on the verge of tears.
“It’s okay, Uncle Maffew,” Lizzie promised as she nuzzled against his neck before sitting back and looking between Elizabeth and me. “My Mommy and Daddy took care of me.”
For the briefest moment, Matthew’s attention shifted from Lizzie to me. His expression was wary, but for the first time it lacked the contempt it normally held. He opened his mouth as if to say something but turned away as Elizabeth made the call to breakfast.
I couldn’t help but feel out of place as the four of them settled into their usual spots without a thought. Matthew and Lizzie dove right into conversation as he asked for a play-by-play of the night before while he dug into the food spread out on the table in front of him. My feet were glued to the floor as I watched them with benevolent envy, without spite or resentment, but covetous of the bond they had formed.
Elizabeth looked up from her seat, smothering me in the warmth in her gaze. She inclined her head, beckoning me to take the spot beside her.
As much as I felt like an outsider, my need to be a part of this family outweighed the discomfort I experienced as I walked across the room and pulled out the chair between Elizabeth and Lizzie.
Three pairs of eyes watched as I settled into my place, Natalie as if she’d always believed I belonged there, Matthew cautious, and Elizabeth with a hint of red on her cheeks. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one feeling self-conscious. But
even if it was new and filled with uncertainty, it didn’t make it any less right.
Lizzie was the only one who didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary and continued with the animated description of the previous night, relieving some of the awkwardness.
With a quiet grin on my face, I listened to my daughter prattle on and was unable to contain the pleasure I felt as I filled my plate from the bowls Elizabeth passed my way. If Lizzie had been in distress the night before, I never would have known. Matthew and Natalie hung on her every word as they showered her with sympathy and cheered her for being such a brave girl as she recounted her experience.
By the look of my plate, I knew I appeared to be a glutton. The homemade breakfast was piled high, but I couldn’t resist. How many mornings had I woken up to Elizabeth cooking in that small kitchen of my apartment back in New York? I was salivating by the time I bit into a biscuit dripping with butter and raspberry jam. A moan escaped me before I could stop it.
The voice beside me was so quiet I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it. “They were always your favorite.”
I tilted my head toward her, smiled softly, wished I had the freedom to reach out and touch her face, and whispered, “Thank you for making them.”
I realized we were being watched, but I didn’t care. I’d chosen to stop being a coward the day I’d finally sought Elizabeth out, and if I had to lay my heart out in front of her family to show her I cared for her, that I had never forgotten her, through something as simple has homemade biscuits, I would do it.