Chapter 8 Miller - Baggage with a side of pasta #2
This is where I’m supposed to swoop in and handle the bedtime routine because I’m her dad and that’s what I do every night. But Gwen keeps Penelope cocooned in that fuzzy blanket and lifts her up, cradle style, and walks to the bathroom.
When she reaches the door, she turns back to me and mouths, “I got this, okay?”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond. The next thing I know, the back of that beautiful head of hair is swaying into the bathroom.
It’s crazy to me that just a few short months ago, this entire scenario would have seemed out of the question. I can honestly say I never thought I would trust anyone else with my daughter beyond the daycare I had to go through however many interviews with to feel comfortable.
But now I can hear Gwen singing a song about shiny teeth while Penelope’s electric toothbrush powers away in the bathroom as I sit on the couch. I’m seemingly tapped out of parental duties for the time being by the hilarious, loud, and drop dead gorgeous woman in the next room over.
Gwen made Penelope shoot water out of her nose earlier at dinner when she literally licked her bowl clean to demonstrate how much she loved the homemade sauce.
The laughing continued when the three of us tried to finish a single game of Operation. We couldn’t, for the record. Gwen would make the zapping sound right before I could pull anything out of the pretend patient, causing me to jump and lose, every time.
When we all finally got settled on the couch, P and Gwen housed an entire bag of popcorn during the previews, before the movie even started.
When I had the audacity to ask why we weren’t skipping the previews, Gwen told me I was a funsucker trying to ruin the movie goer experience.
That caused Penelope to fall off the couch, cackling.
My face hurts from smiling so much tonight. I’ve never seen Penelope feed off someone else’s energy so easily. I feel like a broken record, but things just feel different. It’s a slow change with a big impact ever since the group of people we’ve been surrounding ourselves with came into our lives.
After I put our drinkware in the sink to clean once Gwen leaves and trash the empty microwavable popcorn bags, I quietly walk towards Penelope’s bedroom. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s a small space.
“Why don’t we pick out your outfit for school tomorrow? Make things easier on Daddy in the morning,” Gwen says.
I don’t hear Penelope respond, but she must give the go ahead because I hear the opening and closing of drawers.
Gwen might not be a mom yet, but she sure has that natural motherly instinct so many people online talk about when I’m late night doom scrolling for advice.
It doesn’t come easy to me like it does so clearly for her.
She’s the one who suggested pajamas before we started our movie night, anticipating P falling asleep before I could think of it.
I remember the look on her face clear as day when Penelope slipped up that one time in the cafe, talking about Gwen and how she'd make a great mom. I remember how a deep sadness took over every feature and how I couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would make it better. But I knew I wanted to.
I lean in the doorway and watch Gwen mull over options before presenting them to a very sleepy P, laying in bed with her head propped up on one arm.
“It might be chilly tomorrow. Do you know what you have for a special? It’s Friday. I always had gym on Fridays. Maybe a sweater over one of these?” She holds up two T-shirts that look the same to me, but Penelope points to the one on the left.
“That’s a good choice.” I offer out my opinion so Gwen knows I’m there, and I’m not just standing off to the side like a deadbeat creep.
Penelope rolls her eyes, a bad habit of hers since the early age of two that I’ve had negative luck in breaking. “Daddy can’t tell the difference.”
“Most men can’t, girlie. But that’s okay,” Gwen responds.
Gwen finds the drawer of black leggings, grabs a pair to lay out with the shirt and sweater they picked out together, and then immediately picks up one of the dozens of books we have stacked next to P’s bed.
She sits on the edge of the bed, and one hand reaches out to rub circles on Penelope’s back, the other holding the book up to read.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m pulling my phone out of my pocket and snapping a picture.
I’ve done this a couple times now, catching P and Gwen doing random, little things together.
I don’t know what I’m saving them all for.
I really need to share them with Gwen, and I will eventually, but these are the kind of moments that need to be documented.
Margot calls them quiet happys.
I flick on Penelope’s ridiculous amount of nightlights while Gwen is finishing up the story.
Once Gwen says the end and P is back to sleep, I lean over and kiss the top of my daughter’s head, wishing her sweet dreams like I do every night, and gently close the door behind me as Gwen and I walk back out into the living room.
While Gwen and I have found a comfortable common ground with Penelope, we still have absolutely no clue how to act when it’s just the two of us. That’s more than apparent now standing here in the dim light.
“Thank you,” I start.
“For what?”
“You just put my kid to bed, Gwen.”
“Oh.” She scrunches her nose and shakes her head. “That’s like…That’s not something you need to thank me for.”
“I do. It’s a big deal to me.”
“Why?” Gwen walks to the sink, turns the faucet on, and starts doing the dishes.
Absolutely fucking not happening.
I follow her and switch the water off. “Okay, one—You’re not cleaning up. We invite you over for dinner, not chores.” She switches the water back on, ignoring me.
“Two—” Water off. I keep my hand on the knob to stop her from fighting me on it again and turn my head to look at her.
“You do everything for everyone. It might not be a big deal to you and honestly, it kind of pisses me off that everyone around here doesn’t see an issue with that.
But it’s huge to me. Penelope’s bedtime routine is something only I have done every single day since we came home from the hospital. ”
Gwen’s hand covers mine. Her pinky traces the engraved P on my ring. I had it made for Penelope’s first birthday to celebrate reaching such a big milestone, and I haven’t taken it off since. I feel goosebumps break out up my arm. She doesn’t look at me though, keeping her focus down.
“I know,” she breathes. “But this is all I know.”
It sounds more like a confession than I think she intended.
I place my other hand on top of hers. “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate—”
“I don’t!” she interrupts.
“Let me finish.” I raise an eyebrow at her, and she sticks out her tongue. “I appreciate everything you do. Penelope does too. But we really just like having you around, no strings attached.”
Although, I really wouldn’t mind being attached.
“So, I can’t do the dishes?”
“How about this…” I release my hand from hers and bump her with my hip to take her place in front of the sink. “I wash, you dry.”
“If I accept this deal, can I ask you something?” she asks.
I turn the water back on and soap up the sponge while answering her. “Yes.”
“Where is Penelope’s mom?”
Fuuuuuuuuuuck.
I’m not oblivious to the fact that I’m a young, single dad, raising a little girl on my own, and people certainly have questions about it.
I know I could tell Gwen I don’t want to talk about it and she’d drop it.
I’m pretty positive she wouldn’t get upset and would even completely understand my need to shut this down.
I normally shut it down, every single time something like this happens. I did it with the daycare, her preschool and kindergarten teachers, and even Margot and Melanie when each of them has asked. I stand by the fact that it’s absolutely nobody else’s business where Penelope’s biological mother is.
It’s still my first instinct. But I mull over how to respond while scrubbing pasta sauce out of our bowls from earlier.
“We don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry, that was a huge fucking overstep, and it’s none of my business and—”
“Penelope doesn’t have a mom.”
Gwen pauses. She silently takes the clean bowl from my hand to dry and waits. She lets the silence stretch until I hand her the last utensil. “Miller, I’m sorry. I was cool with dropping it, but I think you’re going to have to elaborate now.”
I sigh. “Yeah, I kind of walked myself into that one.”
She puts the hand towel down and walks around the island to sit in one of the barstools.
Her barstool. She props her head up with her hands, her elbows resting on the butcher block.
Those big eyes stare at me, and I decide right here and now that my past is Gwen’s business.
If I have any shot in the world of having someone like this woman in front of me on my team, I have to be willing to let her in.
I opt to stay on this side of the island. Taking a deep breath in, I prepare to shell out history I thought I would be keeping buried until Penelope was older and curious. I run both of my hands through my hair, and when I look up, I see Gwen watching my every move attentively.
“Her name is Sara. We were sixteen years old when she got pregnant, and neither of us had a home we could successfully or safely raise a baby in, so we started running through all of our options. I was agreeing with anything she wanted to do. The guilt was eating me alive that I hadn’t been more careful.
We didn’t know what the fuck we were doing. ”
“I know this is kind of personal but…was abortion one of the options?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “We spent days on her bedroom floor looking up costs and clinics. But ultimately, Sara decided she wanted to go through with the pregnancy. It was her choice.”