Page 47

ROSIE

Jackson holds the door open for me as I push the stroller into the cafe.

Inside, it’s light and airy, tall windows letting in sunlight from the landscaped garden and bathing the wooden tables in gold.

It’s quiet for a Tuesday morning in June, with a few other families dotted around the space, laughing and chatting quietly, except for the couple sitting at the far corner of the room.

Dad is buried on his phone, his glasses perched on his nose.

I’ve seen him more frequently over the last four and a half months than I have since I lived under his roof.

After he waited at the hospital for hours for Olive to arrive, and then a further three hours before I was ready to see him, I figured he’d be allowed some home visiting privileges.

He comes over on Sundays and picks Olive and I up before taking us over to see Nanny.

He hadn’t made the effort in the months before I asked him to take us, but any awkwardness he felt about seeing his mother for the first time in nearly a year was overtaken by the desire to spend time with his new granddaughter.

“Hi Dad,” I say as we approach.

“Hello, sweetheart.” He glances up from his phone and stands, pressing a kiss to my cheek before all his attention is drawn to the giggling baby. “Hello, angel,” he coos as he lets Olive clutch onto his finger.

I relinquish my hold on the stroller and chance a glance at my mother. Her back is straight, her blonde hair perfectly styled and her hands clasped on the table in front of her.

She glances at me before her eyes are drawn to the stroller, and the little hand that appears from the lip.

“Hello, Rosalie,” she says thickly, glancing up at me.

“Hi, Mum.” I haven’t spoken to her since the baby shower, since I forbade her to come into the delivery room. Jackson filled me in on what was said afterwards, how my dad asked for a divorce and Jackson asked her to leave.

I tried not to think about it in the blur that was the first few weeks of Olive’s life. I had a baby to think about, who needed to be kept alive and fed and cared for. I didn’t have the energy to chase after a woman who didn’t want me.

Until a few weeks ago, in the car on the way home from the care home, Dad admitted that they’d been talking. He said he knew I couldn’t forgive her but that maybe it was worth a conversation. A meeting on neutral ground with lots of backup.

“Hi Andrea,” Jackson says, his voice is polite, even if I can see the tight smile he shoots at her.

Jackson pulls a chair out for me, taking the seat between my mother and I. I fidget in my chair before he places his large hand on my knee.

If I could have dreamed up the man who would become the father of my child, I never would have imagined I’d find a man like Jackson.

He takes every nappy change, every night feed, forces me to rest when I need it and distracts Olive when all she wants is to cling to my body.

Jackson is already wrapped around her finger, and she’s just as in love with him as I am.

“She looks bigger,” Dad says as he peers at Olive, who beams at him, her little body shimmying in her onesie.

She’s a wriggler, always wanting to move. God help us when she starts crawling. We’ll never catch her.

“She weighed in at twelve pounds, one ounce at her last appointment,” I say proudly.

“Just like you at that age,” Mum says softly.

I feel my back straighten before Jackson’s hand squeezes my thigh. Olive’s a healthy weight, being fed exactly the right amount. She’s a perfectly chubby baby and as she grows up she’ll still be as perfect as she is now, no matter how much she weighs.

Thankfully, the waiter comes to take our order, giving me a minute to compose myself. I order a coffee and a chocolate cake and notice Mum’s lips thin. I brace myself for a comment, but Dad shoots her a sharp look.

Olive lets out a playful little squeak and all our attention is drawn to her.

“May I?” Dad asks, gesturing to her.

I nod my head and gently move her blanket as he swoops Olive into his arms. We spend the next few minutes staring at her in her granddad’s arms, her big blue eyes scanning the room around her before landing on the woman next to her.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Mum coos softly as Olive’s tiny lips curl into a smile.

Jackson’s arm comes around me as he tangles his hands in my hair .

I swallow roughly. “This is your Granny, Olive.”

Mum’s eyes flit to mine, her lip wobbling slightly. She scoots her chair forward, her hands reaching out as if to clutch the baby to her, but she doesn’t, instead gently brushing a sock-clad foot.

“You good, pretty girl?” Jackson murmurs in my ear.

I take a sip of my coffee and glance up at him. “I think so.”

I tilt my head and press a kiss to his lips.

Olive starts fussing, and Jackson sends me a wink.

“I feel a meltdown coming on,” he announces, rising to his feet and rounding the table to Olive. “Come on, baby girl, let’s get some fresh air.”

He effortlessly plucks Olive out of her grandfather’s arms and swoops her into his own. Olive loves being carried by her daddy. I think it’s because he’s so tall. She gets to see so much more from her vantage point, and I understand too well how it feels to be swept up in Jackson Harper’s arms.

“Want to join, Terry?” Jackson asks. Dad pats my shoulder as he follows Jackson out the door, leaving me alone with my mother for the first time in months.

It doesn’t take long for Jackson and Dad to appear through the window, wandering around the landscaped garden and pointing out the wildlife to Olive. Mum and I both turn to watch, using it as an excuse not to talk to each other.

“She’s so curious,” Mum says, and I can see her smile in the reflection of the window.

I nod my head.

“You were like that,” she says, still not looking at me.

“So curious about the world.” She pauses, “And happy. You were such a happy baby. You used to giggle all the time, especially when Cleo would play with you. She used to love playing with you, and even when you had no idea what was going on, you’d let out that adorable little laugh. ”

I fiddle with my mug, tracing my finger along the rim.

“I barely remember a time we were even in the same room and I had fun,” I say, quietly. “I only remember the times I didn’t.”

Mum turns her head, resting it on a shaking hand for a minute.

“I’m so sorry, Rosalie.”

I blink, taken aback.

“I’ve come to realize that I—” She breaks off.

“I haven’t done right by you. Cleo always needed so much more attention than you, and she’s so much like me that I…

It’s no excuse. I have no excuse. I’m ashamed of myself.

Ashamed that it took your father threatening me with a divorce for me to realize what I’d put you through. I never meant to play favorites?—”

“But you did,” I can’t stop myself from snapping, all my righteous anger that I’ve tried to let go of since the baby shower bursting to the surface.

“I would tell you so many times how miserable I was, how nasty Cleo could be, and you never once believed me. Never stood up for me, never comforted me. I was all alone.”

“I know,” she whispers.

I can’t stop. “She told the whole world about Olive before I did. She stole that chance from me over and over again.” My blood pounds in my chest. “And the baby shower? What possessed you to do that? To go along with it?”

She wipes at a tear from the corner of her eye, her bracelets clinking with the motion. “I can’t go back in time and fix my mistakes, but I want you to know that I’m sorry for all of it. And if—” She takes a breath, her voice shaking. “If you can’t forgive me, I’ll accept it.”

I watch as a tear drops from her red eyes, smudging her mascara.

In my entire life, I’ve never seen my mother cry, and I don’t really know what to do about it.

I bite my lip as I feel my own eyes water.

“I’m not…” I start before breaking off. I glance out the window, at Jackson, who’s already facing me. I watch as his large hands rub Olive’s back gently, rocking her in place. I take a deep breath. “I’m not ready to forgive you, for everything. But… we can do this again sometime, if you’d like.”

Her eyes widen as she nods her head, sliding her hand across the table towards mine.

“I’d like that so very much,” she whispers, her fingers twitching on the table.

I nod my head, glancing back out at Jackson as he tickles Olive’s belly until she erupts into laughter.

“Here.” I slide the chocolate cake towards her. “Eat some of this before Jackson gets back and inhales it all.”

She sends me a beaming smile before grabbing a fork and digging in.

I might not be ready to forgive her, and we might never have the kind of relationship Jackson has with his mother, or Anya with hers, but maybe we can share a slice of cake on a sunny afternoon. And maybe it’s a start.