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“If you wanted to leave, there would be no way I could stop you…safely. And I would never jeopardize your safety. Or the baby’s.”
His voice was gentle. There was no doubt in my mind that he cared about his child.
“But keep in mind, it’s not safe out there. I have my enemies…some of them seem to be from within my own organization. I’m still trying to figure out who and why.”
His voice sounded melancholy. That wasn’t an emotion I was used to hearing from him. What had changed? When had he changed?
I figured it was because of the baby…which was good, right? But part of me wanted him to change for me. I wanted to be enough for him…since all my life, I felt I wasn’t enough for anyone.
I laid back down on my pillow and just let myself think, looking into the darkness.
My mother had been a wonderful woman, caring, kind, and strong, but I felt that she’d been lonely. She’d never mentioned it. But there was a time when I was very little, I couldn’t remember what age, and I’d found her looking at a photo.
I asked who it was and she responded that it was my father. Then she neatly tucked it away in a box in the back of a closet and changed the subject.
I knew my mom well enough to know not to ask her about it again. She was known to change the subject whenever she was uncomfortable.
Before the social workers had come to pick me up, I’d gone through her room to collect mementos. I knew I couldn’t carry much, but I needed something to remember her by.
When I reached into her closet, I had thought I was looking for something of hers to bring with me.
But really, I was looking for the box with my father’s picture. I’d found it. Nothing else was in the box. His name wasn’t even listed on my birth certificate.
I thought about trying to find him, but why? What was the purpose? If he wanted to be a part of my life, wouldn’t he have reached out?
Strangely enough, even when I left my apartment and packed my things to move in with Dario, I hadn’t had much to bring with me, but I did take the photo of my father with me. It was in my box of “important papers” that I never opened.
I wondered where that box was now. Did Dario keep it someplace safe, or had he moved it to the island where it had burned? The idea that my only connection to my father might have gone up in smoke didn’t sit well with me.
I hadn’t known him. I didn’t even know if I wanted to know him, that is, if he were still alive, but the thought of losing that one thing I had to remember him by, really hurt.
Sighing, I turned over and told myself that I needed to get some sleep. But I couldn’t help but think of my father at that moment. No matter how loved I was by my mom, I felt that maybe my dad had left her because of me.
Maybe I hadn’t been enough or maybe I’d been too much.
While I rested on my back, I brought my hand up to my growing stomach. I didn’t need to hide it anymore. I thought about whether I should ask Dario to get me some maternity clothes.
I would like that. I was relieved I could acknowledge my child. I wanted my little one to know I loved from the start, and I wanted pictures of me wearing maternity clothes, smiling at the camera, to be a part of my baby’s story.
This was the good part. The part that I could control.
Turning over, I drifted off into a restless sleep, hoping that tomorrow would be better.
The sun shining brightly through the window across our large bed, fit for a king, woke me up the next morning.
I opened one eye and reached for my phone that was sitting on the nightstand, wondering what time it was.
It was already past nine. I didn’t normally sleep in, but I’d been tired. Thoughts of the mother I had lost, the father I’d never known, and the life that grew inside of me had me tossing and turning throughout the night.
I didn’t feel well-rested at all. In fact, I felt sweaty and sticky. I sat up and rested my hand on my belly. I looked down next to me and realized the spot where Dario usually slept was cold. Where had he gone?
I took a long shower, washed my hair, and dressed in a new maternity dress that I found in the closet, along with dozens of other new maternity clothes that were clearly high-end and expensive. I traced my hand over some of the frilly blouses and dresses.
I found myself getting teary-eyed. He’d read my mind it seemed. He did have an uncanny way of knowing what I needed before I could ask. The gesture was kind and unexpected.
I told myself that it didn’t mean anything, but it did. It meant the world to me. I wanted to celebrate my pregnancy and child, even if the world I was bringing her into was burning down around me.
Feeling out of sorts and thrown off by Dario’s kindness, I made my way through the austere home we were living in andtoward the dining room area for breakfast. I didn’t feel like eating, but that didn’t mean the baby didn’t need food.