Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Maybe I was wrong.
Perhaps all he was . . . was heartbroken.
CHAPTER SIX
ROMAN
“Who wants fresh doughnuts?” Aunt Theodora lets herself into my apartment Saturday morning, a giant pink box in hand. “Get them while they’re still warm . . .”
Come hell or high water, this has been our weekly tradition since Emma passed. At eight thirty sharp each and every Saturday, she shows up with breakfast—always something from a renowned bakery or local restaurant—and then she takes the girls for a couple of hours. I know she thinks she’s doing me a favor, but I always find myself watching the clock to see how much time is left before they come home or checking my phone for any texted photos or updates.
I know it’s good for the girls to have some “girl time,” but I miss them just the same.
Some weekends they go to a museum. Other weekends they go to a park or a toy store. Today Theodora’s taking them for manicures and pedicures. It’s all the girls have been talking about all week, and they already have their colors picked out.
Sparkly teal for Marabel.
Hot purple with white polka dots for Adeline.
Matching Barbie pink for their toes.
In the early days after our loss, Emma’s mother visited every month. But as time went by, she found it harder to get away from work and carve out a long weekend in New York. Or so she said.
We used to go to Boston, but the last time we went, Emma’s father and I had words over my so-called coddling of the girls. He had the audacity to call me a helicopter parent—whatever the hell that is. I had some choice words for him myself, though I don’t quite remember what I said exactly.
It wasn’t my finest hour.
And we haven’t been back since.
Neither he nor I has picked up the phone and apologized, and I don’t foresee that happening anytime in the near future.
Emma once told me that her parents were always hands off with her. All her accomplishments, all her accolades, she earned them on her own merit. They never pushed her to be an overachiever, and they never went out of their way to help her chase her dreams in any capacity. Despite all that, they never hesitated to take credit for any of her achievements.
Emma told me that a drunken aunt once let it slip that Emma was an “accident,” that her parents were career focused and never wanted to be parents, but they were doing the best they could playing the hand they were dealt. She said everything made sense from then on out.
“Auntie Dora!” Adeline squeals from the next room, and the sound of little feet padding across the hardwood follows. “What did you bring us?”
“I brought you a lovely assortment of pastries,” she says. “Doughnuts, croissants, scones. As the oldest Bellisario daughter, you’ll get first pick.”
Adeline claps her little hands and does a jump.
Sometimes I’m tempted to take an adorable photo or two and send them to Emma’s parents without any explanation or description. Just a little snapshot of what they’re missing. It comes as no surprise to me, now, that two people who didn’t want to be parents also have very little desire to be grandparents. Emma would be heartbroken if she were around to see this. If she were still here, she’d be taking the girls to Boston on a regular basis, no doubt. Not for herself or for her parents but for our daughters. Everything she ever did was for their benefit.
If my father were still around, I have no doubt he’d be involved in their lives, though I’m not sure what kind of a role he’d play. His love language was money. The man couldn’t shed a tear or utter a simple I love you to save his life, but when I came home with a good report card, he never hesitated to slap down his black Amex or schedule some epic vacation filled with unforgettable experiences.
He wasn’t around by the time we had our first child, but I like to imagine grandfather-hood would have softened him a bit. The girls have cracked my ironclad heart wide open, that’s for sure.
My mother visits from France twice a year—Christmas and then the middle of April, during the week between the girls’ birthdays. Occasionally her new husband joins her, though the last few visits he’s stayed back for various convenient reasons.
I’ll never beg someone to be in our life.
If they want to, they will.
It’s that simple.
“And where is Mademoiselle Marabel?” Theodora asks Adeline.
Adeline places a hand on her hip, tucking her chin and leaning in. “Don’t tell Daddy, but she’s watching YouTube.”
Theodora glances up at me, and I shake my head. I blocked YouTube months ago, after I found her watching some questionable content better suited for someone thrice her age. The internet is a minefield of crap, and policing the content my kids have access to feels like a full-time job sometimes.