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“I rolled my eyes at him,” I said, “and told him, ‘I don’t need a babysitter.’ But he just smiled and kept walking behind me.”
“What did he say next, Mummy?” she asked, practically bouncing with anticipation.
I smiled at the memory. “He said, ‘Good. Because I don’t want to be your babysitter, I’d like to ask you out.’”
Ava clapped again, like it was the best pick-up line she’d ever heard. “And then what, Mummy?” Ava asks, avid to know more.
“And then we exchanged numbers, and he called me. And the rest is history,” I finished, not wanting to make the story too long.
“But what happened? Did you hold hands? Did he take you out on a date? Did he kiss you?” Her questions tumbled out like a flood, her little face eager for more details.
I laughed, ruffling her hair. “That’s a story for another time, my little duckling. All you need to know is that he was kind, and he made me laugh."
Every single time I tell her the story, I see the same sparkle in her eyes, the same wonder at the father she never got a chance to meet.
After everything that went down with him, I thought about going back home to Colombia. But after speaking with my family, they made it clear I wasn’t welcome. They called me a disgrace for getting pregnant by a man they considered practically a stranger.
I can still hear my dad’s voice, cold and cutting: “I didn’t raise a prostitute. Don’t ever contact us again.”
I’m the youngest of three girls. We weren’t rich, but we never wanted for anything. My parents were loving and caring, but they were always very strict, heavily reprimanding us for our mistakes.
My family was very supportive of me coming to London to learn English, but the longer I stayed, the more they questioned my decision.
I didn’t expect to be welcomed back with open arms, but I didn’t think my father would be so radical. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at all.
But I was.
The shock of their rejection hit me like a freight train. Being called names and treated like I’d ruined my life was unbearable. I crieda lotduring the first month of my pregnancy.
But I’ve met some amazing, kind, generous people along the way who have helped me create a safe and loving environment to raise Ava.
Now, years later, those painful memories seem like a distant storm, softened by the joy Ava brings into my life every day.
“Mummy, do you think Mrs. Evans is awake? Maybe she could have breakfast with us.” Ava asks as she pops a piece of banana into her mouth.
“I’m sure you can check,” I reply, flipping the last pancake onto the plate.
As soon as I set the dish on the counter, Ava quickly washes her hands, removes her apron, and darts out of our flat.
I hear her knocking on the flat next door, followed by muffled voices, and then footsteps.
Moments later, Mrs. Evans enters with a bright smile.
“Good morning, dear. Sweet Ava invited me over for breakfast, and I couldn’t refuse,” Mrs. Evans says with Ava wrapped around her middle.
“Thank you for joining us, Mrs. Evans. I wasn’t sure if you were up yet, but you know how Ava can be sometimes.”
“Well.” She chuckles. “I wouldn’t get out of bed on my first day after retirement for just anyone. Sweet Ava is special.”
“What doesretirenentmean?” Ava asks, frowning as she looks up at her.
At that moment, she looks every bit the five-year-old she is. Sometimes she acts far beyond her years, so it’s always endearing to see her with wondrous eyes.
“Retirement,” Mrs. Evans enunciates carefully, “means I don't have to work anymore. I just get to enjoy life now,” she says with a triumphant smile.
Ava’s face remains puzzled. “So you don’t have to do anything anymore? That sounds boring,” Ava declares, plopping down at the dining table.
I stifle a laugh while Mrs. Evans bursts out laughing. “On the contrary, my sweet darling. Now I get to do the things Ilike, instead of things Ihaveto do.”