Chapter Thirty-Three
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SHE’S HALF YOURS
PAST
N othing on this green earth could’ve prepared me for childbirth.
Not the screaming and pushing and crying. Not the idea that the baby wouldn’t come or that my body was going to tear in half by the time she made it out. Not the fear of pooping. Not the pain that wracked my body because I was determined to try to give birth naturally, like I’d win a fucking award for it.
Not Peter’s words of encouragement that both angered and fueled me.
In the end, they had to go in and get my stubborn girl.
We’d known her gender for a couple of weeks and were unable to settle on a name before she came. My rationalization was that I couldn’t name her until I saw her face. But now I realize I was just being a fucking chicken. That if I didn’t give her a good name, kids would make fun of her, and she’d resent me for the rest of her life.
Peter has a look of pride on his face as he admires us from the doorway. I have her at my breast, watching as she suckles, unsure if she’s even getting anything.
They don’t tell you that although breastfeeding is touted as the most natural option, it feels alien. And nothing can prepare you for the oddness of the initial latch.
“I don’t know what to name her,” I murmur, staring down at her soft skin as her eyes drift shut. “It’s such a huge responsibility.”
“We have some time. Get to know her and then decide,” he assures me, and I twist my lips, unsure if I can truly do this.
But she’s here. It’s too late to back down. It’s not like I can shove her back up there.
“Okay, I’ll be right back,” he announces as he strolls over to press a kiss to my forehead.
“Don’t take too long,” I urge him, afraid to be alone with her. Afraid I might do something wrong.
“I’m grabbing the food and I’ll be right back,” he promises. I made him order us a pizza, unable to stomach the bland hospital food.
He walks out and then it’s just the two of us.
And if I thought being the larger person of the two of us made me in charge, I was wrong. I know, in this moment, I’ll do anything to keep her from crying. I’m at this six-pound baby’s mercy.
Even as I stare at her, I can see Abraham in her features. His miniature nose on her face, the dark hair—far darker than even my natural color—the long lashes that cast shadows over her little cheeks.
All things I wish he could see for himself. Things I can’t say out loud.
Tears fill my eyes as I think about what he would want to name her. How he won’t have a say…won’t make choices about her upbringing. Won’t be able to give her his last name.
Living in a world where he doesn’t know her…doesn’t even know she exists? It breaks me. Tears slide down my ch eeks at the sheer enormity of her existence and the fact that he knows nothing about it.
Peter will be a great father. But not giving Abraham the option to try isn’t right. I can’t follow through with our agreement.
So, I break my promise to Peter.
I set her in her bassinet and grab my phone, unsure how to do this. Do I try to text him? Does he have the same number?
Should I try to email him? But how? Where would I send it?
I opt for a letter, remembering the address of his place in New York. I’ll draft the letter up, send it in the mail, and be done with it.
And if he doesn’t live there anymore, maybe the person there will know where to forward the letter. It’s a long shot, but the only one I can take.
Abraham,
I had a baby girl. She’s half yours.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.
I’m married now and he’ll be a good father. But if you want to be her father too, I can’t take that from you.
If you’d like to meet her and be in her life, you have my number.
- Sabrina
Secretly, I check my phone for months for any word from him after I’ve sent the letter. I name her after my mother, wanting to break a cycle…to give a new beginning to a name that’d caused so much pain.
I give Peter another child, Jilly, who we name after his mother. She felt like a consolation prize, cementing the notion that he’d stay and rewarding him for doing so.
I wasn’t ready to have kids back-to-back, but Peter insisted we have them close together and get the pregnancies over with. And with his support, I did so. Even during the back-breaking work of starting my own business.
But in the rare quiet moments, I wonder if my letter ever made it to Abraham, thinking that if he knew, he’d reach out.
If I’m being honest, I wait for a response for a year before I finally let him go.
And on her second birthday, I finally get a response, in the form of a large check from Abraham Pugliesi, made out to me.
I wonder how he found me, but I figure a man of his means could find anyone. Could find his daughter. Could be present and learn what her favorite food is or that she is just as stubborn as he is.
I rip up the check.
I rip up every single one that comes for each of her birthdays afterward, too.
Fuck him .