Letter Twenty-Seven #9
“That’s the fear talking. That’s your piece-of-shit dad talking. You can’t listen to him anymore. He’s wrong about this. I promise you he is.”
“Even if you’re right, he’ll never be my dad the same way he’s theirs.
He didn’t”—you stopped, eyes brimming with tears, voice broken as you continued—“carry me round the park on his shoulders. Or read bedtime stories to me every night. Or fucking sit on the floor helping me open presents at Christmas. He didn’t fall in love with me like he did the day Michael was born or form some special attachment to me over the course of my lifetime like he did with you.
I missed too much—missed everything that solidifies the bond between a parent and child.
It’s too late for me. He can’t love me like he loves them. ”
And there it was: the root of the problem. The real fear. The reason you still hadn’t told him. What if John couldn’t love you any more than your adoptive dad did?
“You’ll never know that for sure unless you allow him to try.” I slipped off my stool and stepped between your legs. “Come on. I’ll go with you. I’ll be there the whole time, holding your hand. It’ll be okay.”
Your head shook. “It’s not fair to Michael.”
“This has nothing to do with Michael. It’s about what’s best for you and John.”
“If Michael doesn’t take it well, I might actually have to walk away from you, and I don’t want to do that. I don’t know if I can.”
“We’ll sort that out later. No matter what happens, we’ll live here together for the next nine months. If nothing else, we’ll always have that.”
You stared past me a while, debating. “If I do this,” you said finally, searching my gaze, “you’ll let Nic take you to get a dog?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll do it tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll let me tell you how beautiful you are without ruining it? No more ‘I bet you say that to all the girls’ or any of the other shit that drives me insane?”
“Well, now you’re just throwing things out there—”
“See? This is what I mean. I’m being serious, and you’re being flip.”
“Yes,” I said, placing my hands on your shoulders. “I’ll let you give me compliments.”
“Okay,” you said with a nod. “Alright.” Then you winced. “You know what, though? We don’t even know if he’s home.”
“Nice try. It’s nine a.m. on a Saturday. He went for his morning run around sunrise, showered, ate breakfast, and now he’s probably reading a book while finishing up his coffee. That’s his Saturday morning routine.” I swiped your phone off the island. “But you can text him to be sure.”
“No,” you said, eyes drifting closed as you plucked the phone from my hand. You seemed to be giving yourself a pep talk. “Let’s go.”
Less than ten minutes later, we were huddled close on the Harrises’ front stoop, staring at their glossy black door and the balsam wreath, leftover from Christmas, that barely clung to life. You dragged a shaky hand across your mouth. “I can’t do it.”
“You can.” Before you could change your mind, I grabbed your hand and rang their doorbell.
As the chime sounded inside, you tossed your head back and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
Luckily for us, John answered. “Good morning, you two,” he said, stepping aside so we could enter. “Nic’s in the kitchen with Libby if you need him. Can I get you some coffee?”
You stood there, blinking at him, the tremor in your hand intensifying.
“No,” I said. “We’re actually here to see you, John. We need to talk to you about something.”
“Oh,” he said with a smile. He ushered us into his study, where he had a fire going. The haunting portrait of that woman—painted by your mother—loomed large over the sitting area. “What’s going on?”
You sat next to me on the settee and swallowed. “Would—um—is Michael here, by any chance?”
“He isn’t,” John said. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s”—you gazed back at him—“actually, no. We had an argument right before Christmas and haven’t really spoken to each other since.”
“Oh,” John said, grooves exactly like yours deepening between his eyebrows.
He removed his reading glasses, then deposited them on the coffee table next to his book, which he’d laid face down.
No bookmark in sight. Just like you. “I’m sorry to hear that.
I know you guys have been having a tough time communicating lately. ”
You straightened. “You do?”
John nodded. “He told me about the adoption thing.”
I squeezed your hand. This was the perfect segue into the I’m-your-son thing. He’d practically handed it to you on a silver platter.
But you only said, “Right. It’s not something I enjoy talking about, but I should’ve told him. I shut him out over the summer, and it hurt his feelings.”
“Yes,” John said. “He seems to feel like you’ve drifted away from him.”
“I have—I didn’t mean to, but I definitely have. There’s something I’ve been needing to tell him for quite some time now, but I’m afraid it might cause me to lose him. So I keep…putting it off.”
John’s gaze dropped to our hands, our fingers interlaced and resting on your leg.
“You won’t lose him, Casey. What you need to tell him might push him away for a while—but if you don’t tell him the truth, you risk losing him, anyway, right?
Just talk to him, and if it doesn’t go well—if you end up losing him over it?
—keep talking to him. Keep showing up. Even when it’s hard. ”
You gave a series of quick nods, as if you were taking his advice to heart.
“For what it’s worth,” John said, “I’m glad he has you in his life. He doesn’t often meet people who take time to get to know him for who he really is. I know you’d never do anything to intentionally hurt Michael. Sometimes, these things just happen.”
Did he assume the something you needed to tell Michael centered around us? Around your feelings for me?
“But I hope you’ll tell him sooner rather than later,” John said. “I don’t like seeing him hurt, but I don’t like knowing he’s being deceived, either.”
John’s gaze locked on mine, unwavering in its intensity, his message clear. And that’s when I knew: he wasn’t just saying these things to you. He was saying them to me, too. Especially that last thing. He didn’t like knowing that you were being deceived by me.
Then he added, “One of the many things I’ve always appreciated about you, Casey, is how genuine and honest you are.”
Okay, so it wasn’t the best statement John could’ve made right then. Still, I squeezed your bicep and said, “Which is why Casey has something he needs to tell you.”
A flicker of movement caught my eye. Libby stepping into the room, followed by my dad, who snaked his arm around her waist and jerked her back.
As Nic held Libby against him, a couple of things stood out: the look of pride on his face, shadowed by the grim acceptance of things to come—the fallout, the groveling, the trust that might never be regained—along with the fear, so clearly manifested on hers.
Did Libby already know what you were there to say?
John leaned forward. “What is it, Casey?”
You glanced at the painting over his shoulder. Scanned the rows of shelves, the pictures of our family, the books. Settled back on him. “Actually,” you said, dragging a shaky hand across your mouth. “It can wait.”
Your hand slipped from mine, then you rushed from the room.
I spotted John’s frown at your abrupt departure before I rushed off to follow you.
Back at my house, you slumped to the bottom of the stairs, head clasped between your hands, whispering, “I couldn’t do it.
I was going to, I swear, but I’m not honest. I’m not genuine—and I am hurting Michael intentionally.
He’s got me all wrong.” You buried your face in my lap, whispering it over and over: “I’m sorry. ”