11. Heidi
HEIDI
Six days after Ivy's birth, Beau comes to Mom's living room for his first scheduled visit with Ivy.
He arrives five minutes early and waits in his car until the agreed time.
I watch from the upstairs window without meaning to. He sits with both hands on the steering wheel, looking at the house. At exactly two, he gets out with no flowers, no toy, and no bag full of things designed to make him look like a father.
I appreciate the restraint. I resent appreciating anything.
Before opening the door, I check Ivy's diaper, smooth her sleeper, and tell myself I am preparing my daughter rather than trying to control the first sight of them together.
Beau steps inside and stops.
“Hi,” he says to me.
“Hello.”
His eyes move to Ivy. His whole face changes.
“May I wash my hands?”
I point toward the kitchen. It is such a sensible question that tears burn behind my eyes.
My mother stays in the kitchen. I place our daughter in his arms myself because I will not make Ivy carry the punishment for what he did to me.
The first attempt goes badly. Beau's forearm catches beneath the blanket, and Ivy protests before he has her settled.
“Support her neck.”
“I am.”
“Higher. No, your other hand.”
He looks up at me. “Show me.”
I move close enough to guide his palm. The warmth of him reaches through my sleeve. For a second we are bent over our daughter together, heads almost touching.
I step away first.
Ivy opens her eyes. Beau goes completely still.
“Hello,” he whispers. “I'm your father.”
The words strike me with enough force that I have to sit.
He looks at me at once. “Are you all right?”
“Keep looking at her.”
So he does.
Beau knows how to support her head. He does not know the hungry turn of her mouth or the sound she makes before crying. I answer direct questions.
He tells her he is sorry.
Not to me through her. Not a performance about what he will repair. He speaks softly to the baby in his arms.
“I should have been there when you arrived. Your uncle was there, and I'm grateful to him. I should have been there too.”
I turn toward the window. My mother has left a cup on the sill, and I stare at the faint ring beneath it until my vision clears.
“She doesn't understand,” I say.
“I know.”
“Then don't make her comfort you.”
“I won't.”
He stops talking and learns the weight of her in silence.
“I thought seeing the records would show you there was no affair,” he says.
“They showed me where you were while you were sitting beside me.”
Ivy spits milk into the opening of his shirt. Beau looks down, startled, and I almost laugh. The old ease reaches me before I can stop it. Missing him feels like another humiliation.
Beau looks from the milk spreading across his shirt to me.
“Is this a comment on my parenting?”
The line is so familiar that a laugh escapes.
His face brightens. Mine burns.
“Don't,” I say.
“I didn't do anything.”
“You looked happy that I laughed.”
“I was.”
He takes the cloth I offer and wipes his shirt while keeping Ivy steady. She makes a satisfied sound.
“Traitor,” he tells her softly.
I want to sit beside him and explain that she does the same thing to me twice a day. The wanting feels like a door I am not ready to open.
So I tell him only where the clean cloths are.
When Ivy settles, Beau asks whether the records changed anything.
“Yes. I know more now.”
“Does knowing there was no sex matter?”
“It matters. It does not make the rest harmless.”
Beau looks down at Ivy.
During the visit, Beau asks how long she feeds and whether the rash beneath her chin is new. His questions are practical, but his attention keeps returning to me.
Then Ivy cries. He tries three positions in quick succession. I tell him to stop changing things long enough for her to recognize his shoulder. He listens. She settles.
He looks proud, and I hate how much I want him to have this. I also hate that wanting good things for my daughter leaves me exposed to him.