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But I know how close she and Abigail have always been. She left home with Hettie, with the Lockes’ full support.
I know that because a month or so after they left, I ran into Mrs. Locke in town and had to endure a lecture about how I forced Hettie to leave. She was always more of a mother to her than Hettie’s own.
They didn’t know we had married, just that my actions had broken us up. As far as I know, only two people still in Battle Harbour know that Hettie is legally my wife—Spencer and Mabel Crow.
I’m going to have to tell my family. Not looking forward to that.
“I told her your family was important, and that you had a lot of responsibilities that kept you away,” Hettie says carefully. “That you might not be around, but that didn’t mean you didn’t love her.”
“So you forgot to mention to her that you never even told me that I had a daughter.” I can’t keep the sarcasm from my voice. It’s not a good look for me.
“No, I didn’t tell her that. She’s seven. She wouldn’t understand.”
“You don’t know that. I’ve heard kids are resilient.”
“Bo…”
Hettie sounds guilty. She sounds… upset. But after eight years apart, I can’t be sure of anything about Hettie now.
There is only silence until we pull up in front of the Lockes’. I was here so often when I was younger; the three of us spent a lot of time together and the family welcomed me as much as they did Hettie. Abigail was my friend too, and I missed her when she left.
I was also angry because she could be with Hettie and I wasn’t.
I grip the wheel and stare at the house. The last time I was here, I was driving the same truck. It had been brand new and I had been so proud of it. Mr. Locke had come outside so I could show it off.
I have no idea what to say to him now. I have no idea what to say to my daughter.
How do you meet your own child after never knowing she existed?
“Are you all right?” Hettie asks hesitantly.
“Not really, no.”
She sighs, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her hand move toward my fingers. It stops before she touches me.
It seems crazy that I’m still desperate for her to touch me.
“We don’t have to do this now,” she says gently. “You can take your time. In fact, it might be better—”
“Were you coming back to tell me?” I interrupt, voicing the thought that has been dancing around my brain like a merry-go-round. “If I had said I’d divorce you, would you have left without telling me about her?”
“No.” Her reply is too quick. Even after all the years away, I can tell from her expression that’s not the truth.
“You’re lying,” I say flatly.
“I don’t know what I would have done,” she confesses. “It’s just… I don’t know. I have to think of Tema.”
I’m thinking of Tema, too, but I don’t say that. It’s only been hours but already she’s important to me. There’s a connection there, has been since I saw her picture. Maybe it’s because she looks like a little Lyra, but I will not allow her to be hurt. I don’t doubt Hettie is a good mother but she hasn’t had the best example from her parents.
But I can’t assume I would be any better.
What am I doing? Is this a good idea? I don’t know this child—I don’t know Hettie. I never would have believed she would have kept this from me. I knew she would move on, meet someone else but to hear her ask me for a divorce—? What will that do to Tema?
It’ll do nothing because she doesn’t even know me.
The cab of the truck seems too small, too close to be having this conversation. The console separates us, but it would be easy totake my hand off the steering wheel and touch Hettie’s knee. Turn just a bit and cup her cheek. Reach out with both hands and draw her close.
I keep my hands firmly where I can see them. “Do you really want a divorce?” I ask, my voice rough like I haven’t used it in a while.