Epilogue #2
He and Sterling have met twice, both times at the clinic.
They’re unfailingly civil, mutually respectful, and will never be friends.
That’s correct. Some geometries don’t become friendship, and nobody owes anyone pretending otherwise.
Sterling shook his hand the first time with the careful formality of a man who understands that Alec Murphy was kind to his wife when he wasn’t, helped save his daughter, and that debt doesn’t have a payment plan.
I think about Alec sometimes, with the clarity that comes from understanding I made a choice that wasn’t easy.
He’d have been good to me and good to Sienna.
I chose Sterling because his growth was real, and he named every part of how he failed me without asking me to make it smaller.
He’s put in the work to re-earn my trust, and I don’t regret it.
I also truly, deeply trust him now, not with a view of having a Plan B like my old apartment if it goes wrong.
Some mornings, I wake up early, before Sterling or Sienna.
I sit in the kitchen with my coffee, thinking about the apartment where I lived with Sienna for four years.
I miss the silence of a space that belongs entirely to you, where nobody can hurt you because nobody is close enough.
Then Sienna comes running down the hall with Bart, and Sterling starts the coffee he still makes every morning without being asked, and the silence doesn’t seem like something I need anymore.
I’ve moved beyond needing a back-up plan or an escape plan. I have a partner I trust to remain my partner now. It was hard for me, and it was hard for him, but we’ve gotten to the right point now, where we can be happy and flourish as a couple and individuals.
The party winds down around four. Parents collect children.
Oscar’s mother apologizes for the elephant argument, which apparently escalated.
Hettie packs the leftover cake into containers and takes one home with her.
She earned it. Marnie finishes her wine, hugs Sienna, tells Sterling the hot dogs were terrible, and drives back to Charlotte despite our invitation to sleep on the pull-out.
Sienna is sitting in the grass with Bart, eating a piece of cake with her fingers.
Sterling is cleaning the grill, and I’m carrying plates to the kitchen.
It’s an ordinary Saturday in October, except for being the birthday of the most remarkable child in the world.
It’s an afternoon that doesn’t feel historic while it’s happening, but I’ll remember it forever.
“Mommy?” Sienna looks up at me.
I set the plates on the counter and go back outside. “What’s up?”
“Why is my last name different from Daddy’s?”
She asks it as she asks everything, directly, with full expectation of a truthful answer, because I’ve never given her anything less.
She’s five. She’s in preschool. She knows most of her classmates share last names with their fathers.
She knows she’s Sienna Weaver while her father is Sterling Hollingsford.
She’s been working on this question for a while.
I can see it in the careful way she phrases it and how she watches my face after she asks.
I look across the yard at Sterling. He’s standing at the grill with a spatula in one hand, looking at us, and he looks hopeful but a little anxious.
He puts down the spatula and walks across the yard.
He crouches beside Sienna in the grass, at her level, as he’s learned to do over the several months, because talking to a five-year-old from adult height is a power dynamic and he’s unlearned those.
“I made a mistake before you were born,” he says. “Your mom had to be brave for a long time by herself. I’m still fixing it.”
Sienna considers this. She has her mother’s directness and her father’s stubbornness, and the combination produces a five-year-old who processes information with unsettling thoroughness. She looks at me then Sterling. She looks at Bart, as though confirming with her primary advisor.
“What kind of mistake?” she asks.
Sterling doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t simplify it past the point of honesty, and he doesn’t burden her with more than a five-year-old can carry. “I didn’t listen when your mom told me the truth. That hurt her, and it meant she had to take care of you without me for a while.”
“Are you listening now?”
“Every day. I’m learning to be better at it.”
Sienna looks at me, and I nod, so she nods. This answer satisfies her for now. She’ll probably have more mature questions as she gets older, but this will hold her over.
“Can I be Sienna Weaver Hollingsford?” she asks.
“That’s up to you and your mom,” Sterling says.
Sienna looks at me. “Can I?”
“If you want to. Or just Sienna Hollingsford if you choose. You don’t have to decide now.”
“I’ll think about it.” She picks up Bart. “Is there more cake?”
“In the kitchen in the storage container on the breakfast bar. You’ll have to get past Hettie though.”
She runs inside with a happy squeal. The screen door slams. Sterling is still crouched in the grass, looking at the spot where his daughter was sitting, and I can see him taking a while with it, the question, the answer, and that our five-year-old asked him why she doesn’t share his name.
He told her the truth which means reliving the moment.
That will probably happen forever, but we get through it each time.
I walk across the yard to reach down and pull him up by the hand. He stands but doesn’t let go. Neither do I.