Chapter 40
FORTY
Deacon
It’s Wednesday evening, and after picking her up from Gabby and Ray’s house, Willow and I are sitting on the rug in her bedroom, doing her favorite jigsaw puzzle—a riverside picnic scene, full of anthropomorphic animals dressed in summer clothes, enjoying good food and sunshine-filled games.
Life’s good for these animals.
“I want to do the tree,” she says, pointing at the weeping willow on the box.
Historically, it’s been the part of the picture I’ve done, because it’s the hardest bit.
But things are changing. Willow groups the pieces with the tree together and starts fitting them into the puzzle like a pro.
I busy myself doing some of the parts she doesn’t like doing.
But she doesn’t need my help with any of it.
I’m here for the company, not assistance.
Willow is growing up.
“How was it staying at Mommy and Ray’s house?” I ask.
“Good,” she replies, as she correctly fits another piece of the puzzle into the picture. “My bed there is big, isn’t it, Daddy?”
“It is a big bed,” I say. Maybe I should replace her bed here. I glance over at her frilly pink bedsheets that are covered in stuffed animals. It’s been the same for years now.
“And in the morning, Mommy came into my bed and snuggled.” She glances up at me. “Maybe I could have a big bed here?” she asks.
I pull in a breath. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Maybe even…I could move into the green bedroom next door,” she says.
“You don’t like this room?”
“I do, but the green room has a big bed, and it’s got a shower in the bathroom. I had a shower at Mommy’s house on my own. Just like a big girl.”
A big girl.
My baby’s six. I’m not sure I’m ready for her to be a big girl.
Usually, Lucia would run a bath for Willow in her bathroom and then I’d bathe her. A shower is probably quicker and gives Willow a bit more independence.
“Let’s go and see the green room, shall we?” While I was sharing the house with Gabby, I stuck to the rooms in the house that felt like mine or Willow’s—the downstairs living area, my bedroom, Willow’s bedroom, and the basement.
I follow Willow out of her room. A laundry room separates her bedroom and the green room.
And then my current bedroom is next to the green bedroom, opposite the primary.
There are another two bedrooms at the top of the house, but I have no idea what they’re used for.
I can’t remember the last time I went up there.
Gabby and I chose Willow’s current bedroom because it was next door to the primary. It still felt like a million miles away, but now, maybe she doesn’t need to be right next door to the primary.
“You’re going to move into Mommy’s old room now that she doesn’t live here?” she asks, as we step into the green room.
I suppose that had been the plan. I haven’t gotten around to actually sleeping in that room yet though. “Maybe,” I say.
“This has a big bed already,” she says, as she cartwheels into the green room. “And even a dressing table.”
“You want a dressing table?” I ask.
“For my makeup.” She reaches into her jeans pocket and pulls out a lip balm. “I can put my hairbrushes on here too. And my lotion.”
She wants to be just like Gabby.
“What about all your books?”
She shrugs. “We can bring them in here. Or we can leave them and I can just get them when I need them.”
I guess she could have her things in two bedrooms. It’s not like we have other uses for the six bedrooms in this house.
“And if Aurora ever comes to stay, she could sleep in my old bedroom. Or your old bedroom.”
“Aurora?”
“Maybe,” she says. “We could ask her if she wanted to come over for a playdate or a sleepover.”
Willow’s only met Aurora once, but she mentions her like she was part of our lives. She was part of my life, but I deliberately didn’t make her part of Willow’s. Yet somehow, Aurora has left her mark on my daughter.
It’s unsurprising, I suppose. She certainly left her mark on me.
“Do you want to paint the walls?” I ask.
“I think it’s pretty like this,” she says. The wallpaper is an intricate design of leaves. It doesn’t feel particularly child friendly. Maybe Willow will want a change once she’s in here. “Can I sleep in here tonight?” she asks.
“Tonight?”
Willow shrugs. “Wait a second!” She scoots out of the room. She’s back in a flash, carrying an armful of soft toys. “Let’s see if they like it,” she says. She starts talking to her polar bear and her penguin.
“We might sleep here tonight,” she explains. “The bed is bigger and there’s a shower. But if we don’t like it, we can always change our minds.”
I smile at my daughter, who wants to be a big girl and a little girl all at the same time, it seems. I step into the bathroom.
It’s not as big as the one in Willow’s room, but it does have a big shower.
Willow could shower herself, in theory. And I make a mental note to check with Lucia that the sheets are clean for Willow.
“You could try it,” I say, as I come back into the bedroom.
Willow’s eyes light up. “And you could try Mommy’s old room. Let’s go and see it.”
We pad down the corridor, past the laundry room, Willow’s current bedroom, and into the primary.
I haven’t been in here for years. Not much has changed since Gabby and I shared this room. It has the same blue roman blinds at the window and the same bedside tables. It’s like some kind of memorial to a relationship that’s long since died.
“I don’t think I’ll sleep in here tonight,” I say.
“Why not, Daddy?”
I head into the bathroom. “I think I want to paint the walls.”
Willow grabs me and my stomach flips over.
I know what she’s going to say. She’s going to beg me not to.
She wants it to stay the same—she wants to remember what the house was like when she used to live here with both her parents.
I understand that feeling of panic that comes with change you don’t want. And I won’t put Willow through that.
“Daddy!” Willow squeals. “Can I choose the color?”
I turn to her and she’s grinning. She’s not panicking.
“The color?”
“Yes, if you’re going to paint, can I choose?” she asks.
“You don’t mind if I paint in here?” It’s a bigger room, with larger windows at the back of the house, which would be quieter. I wouldn’t need both the bathrooms—there’s a his and a hers, and both are bigger than the one in the room I’m currently using.
I’d forgotten how much Gabby loved this room. I can see why now.
She shrugs. “I think it would be nice in yellow. Like the sun.”
Yeah, I’m definitely not living in a bright yellow bedroom. “Tell you what,” I say. “you can choose the color you paint your bedroom, and I’ll choose the color I’m going to paint my bedroom.”
“Okay. Sounds like a deal.”
I chuckle at her negotiating.
“But can I actually help do the painting?” she asks.
“I don’t know about that,” I say.
“But I really want to, Daddy. I read in a book how you can write messages under the paint and then paint over it and I really want to write on my walls.”
“We’ll see. We can’t do it today. We have to plan.”
“Let’s write a list.”
“A list?”
“Of all the rooms we’re going to paint.”
“All the rooms? I thought it was just my bedroom.”
“The green room too.”
“I thought you liked that color.”
“I think I’d prefer pink,” she says.
Maybe I haven’t lost my little girl completely.
“You’re right, we need a list.”
“And what about downstairs?” she asks. “We could paint down there too.”
“Oh, you want to paint everything now?”
“Mommy’s house is all fresh and new. I want our house to be like that too.”
I don’t know why I’ve been so concerned about all the change Willow is going through at the moment. She seems to be taking it all in her stride and inviting in more.
I’ve been a fool.
Gabby was right all along. Aurora too. I’ve been trying to keep Willow locked in an ivory tower to keep her safe and happy, when she’s already safe and happy.
If anyone was a danger to Willow’s happiness, it was me. Maybe I wasn’t trying to protect Willow at all, but my self—my younger self who failed to keep his big sister safe. Survivor guilt? Was that what’s been driving me all along?
“And can I get a new dressing table?” she asks.
“A new one?”
“One with a bigger mirror so you can do my hair.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say. “The green room has a nice dressing table already. We can’t have new things all the time.”
“Do you think you can do a French braid in that mirror?” she asks.
Truth is, I don’t think I could do a French braid in a house of mirrors. It’s skill, not sight, that holds me back.
“I’m not sure,” I confess.
“Maybe Aurora needs to give you another lesson.”
More mentions of Aurora.
“Can we call her?” she asks.
My heart starts to race at the thought of speaking to Aurora. Could that even be a possibility?
I shake my head. “She’s at work. We can’t disturb her.”
“Let’s send her a voice note,” she says.
“Voice note?” I ask. “Mommy lets you send voice notes?”
“Just sometimes. To Grandma. So, can we send one to Aurora?”
“You talk about Aurora a lot,” I say.
“I like her. I want her to see my new room. Can she come over for a playdate?” she asks.
“Maybe,” I say.
“When?” she asks.
“You know, you don’t need to worry about Daddy being lonely,” I say.
I’m about to tell her that I can never be lonely if I’ve got her, but I stop myself.
First of all, I don’t have her for half of the week, and secondly, I don’t want her to feel any of the pressure that Gabby described.
My daughter isn’t responsible for me. It’s the other way around.
“But I still want her to come over for a playdate. We can watch a movie. She can do my hair.”
“You have it all planned out.”
“Please, Daddy? I like her. And maybe she could help you pick the colors for your bedroom.”
The more time I spend with Willow lately, the more space I see between us.
Not distance, but positive space that’s been created in Willow’s growing independence.
She’s showering herself, doing jigsaws by herself, having her own thoughts and opinions.
She doesn’t need me in the same way she used to, and that’s good… but I’m not sure I expected it.
I didn’t expect there to be a time when I could see that maybe there’s also space for Aurora.
Maybe there was space for Aurora all along, and I just couldn’t see it.
“If you sent her a message, she might come around after she’s finished work,” Willow says.
If only it was that simple.
I know Aurora understood why I ended things, but I hurt her.
I could pretend that we were just casual, but I would be lying to myself.
It’s not true. I could pretend that we hadn’t known each other long, and that might be true in terms of time, but in my soul, it felt like I’d known Aurora my entire life. I know she felt the same way.
What we had was something rare. And precious. And I just threw it away because I was afraid.
Afraid of creating a scared, lonely child like I had been.
Afraid of not being the protector of Willow like I vowed to be.
Afraid of making any change in my life in case it disturbed that pain and grief over losing my sister that lives within me.
It’s like I’ve been walking around with a glass vase on my head, not making any sudden movements in case I drop it.
The fact is, I can’t carry it any longer.
Instead of burying this pain and grief, I need to deal with it.
I need to make peace with it. Most of all, I need to not be afraid of it anymore.
“Please, Daddy.”
I’ve been weak. Oblivious. A complete idiot.
I can’t imagine Aurora will ever forgive me. I certainly don’t deserve her to. I definitely can’t leave her a voice note asking her to come round for a playdate, even though that would make my daughter very happy right now.
“I think she’s busy. But how about I message her later, when you’re in bed, and see what she says.”
“Why, Daddy? Why don’t you just do it now?”
“Later,” I say. “I need to figure out what to say.”
“Just ask her to come over.”
I chuckle and ruffle her hair. “It works differently when you’re a grown-up.”
Willow rolls her eyes and cartwheels back and forth as I watch.
In business, I managed to harness my fear and pain and used it to drive me forward toward success.
But in my personal life, the opposite is true.
It’s become a restriction, a prison, an emotion that has too much power over me.
I’ve been so afraid of losing someone I care about, that I’ve either shunned relationships or shielded them so much it’s been destructive. I’ve not been living. Not really.
I won’t let fear and pain hold me back anymore.
I’ve got to open myself up—take a risk. Maybe I’ll still be afraid, but I have to conquer that fear or it will rule me for the rest of my life. It’s already cost me Aurora.
Enough.
I need to live.
Willow is ready. I’m ready. I just hope Aurora is.
And I hope it’s not too late.