“I didn’t know what babies need,” he said, clearing his throat. “So I brought groceries.”
I stepped aside. “Groceries are useful.”
He smiled weakly and came in.
My apartment was small. I had worried suddenly that he would see its mismatched furniture and secondhand bookshelf and leaning Christmas tree and understand too much about how hard I had been working to keep everything afloat.
Instead he looked around like it was sacred because I had built it.
Maisie made a sleepy sound from the bassinet and my father froze. He turned toward her slowly, as if afraid she would vanish if he moved too quickly.
“Can I?” he asked.
I lifted her and placed her in his arms.
For the first few seconds he held himself rigidly, shoulders tight, hands uncertain. Then Maisie shifted against his chest, sighed, and relaxed. Something in his face broke open.
“She’s real,” he whispered.
The words struck me harder than I expected. Real. Not a situation. Not a problem. Not a consequence. A real person.
“Yes,” I said. “She is.”
He rocked her clumsily, then more naturally. She blinked up at him and gave a tiny smile that made him let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
We ate takeout from white cartons at my coffee table because I was too tired to produce a proper holiday meal and he did not pretend to mind. He asked about her schedule, her favorite songs, whether she liked being swaddled, whether she hated tummy time as much as most babies seemed to.
Then, while Maisie slept on his chest, I said what I needed to say.
“This doesn’t go back to how it was.”
He nodded immediately.
“You don’t get to disappear when it’s inconvenient and show up for the sentimental parts.”
“I know.”
“And money is done,” I said. “No more hints. No more emergencies. No more property taxes or roof repairs or start-up dreams landing on my bank account.”
He swallowed. “Okay.”
“If you need help, you ask. You do not assume. And you accept no.”
“Yes.”
We sat in silence for a while after that, and for once silence did not feel like avoidance. It felt like an agreement being built.
When he stood to leave, he hugged me awkwardly, almost carefully, like he was not certain I would allow it. Then he kissed Maisie’s forehead so gently she did not even wake.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispered to her.
