Chapter 14 - THE WORDS HE DIDN'T SAY
A year after Maisie came into my store, the internet found another child to talk about. The cameras moved on. People stopped asking me whether I'd adopted a girl I'd known for a single afternoon, and the ridiculous merchandise printed with her first name gradually disappeared from online listings.
Our lives became more difficult in some ways and easier in others. Hannah's consultancy grew to three employees. She rented a modest office above a bookstore, bought herself the drafting table she wanted, and developed a habit of leaving me voice messages that consisted entirely of complaints about municipal permitting departments.
My own company survived the renovation scandal, but not unchanged. We paid for repairs, improved oversight, and spent a long time rebuilding the trust of employees who'd been told that raising concerns was bad for business. I stepped back from several day-to-day roles and made room for leaders who understood their jobs without needing me to approve every lightbulb.
Derek's involvement in Maisie's life remained inconsistent. He attended several properly arranged meetings, then canceled others, often with explanations that arrived at the last minute. The professionals supporting the family helped Hannah respond without making Maisie responsible for his choices. Nobody promised that Derek would change simply because he'd appeared in court.
One afternoon, Maisie returned from a canceled visit and asked whether she was difficult to love.
Hannah sat beside her on the living-room rug. "Absolutely not."
"Then why does he keep saying he can't come?"
Hannah took a moment before answering. "Some grown-ups have trouble doing what they say they'll do. That's about their choices, sweetheart, not your worth."
Maisie looked toward me. I was repairing a wobbly bookcase across the room.
"You missed my carrot song," she reminded me.
"I did. And you were right to be upset."
"But you came to the dinosaur day. And the swimming class. And when I had that bad dream."
"I was glad you asked me to."
She nodded, apparently conducting another one of her private quality inspections.
That evening, Hannah and I spoke with Maisie's counselor about how to offer consistency without encouraging her to compare or reject parts of her own history. We listened. We didn't rush a decision simply because we loved each other and wanted a happy ending.
Hannah and I had also become better at the uncomfortable conversations we once avoided. We discussed what would happen if one of us needed to travel, how to respect Maisie's privacy when our public lives collided, and how to disagree without making a little girl feel that another adult might suddenly leave. We did not draw up rules to make every moment perfect. We practiced returning to conversations after they'd gone badly.
Once, I argued that we should move to a larger house closer to my office. Hannah pointed out that doing so would take Maisie away from the school and neighbors who'd supported her recovery. I had a detailed spreadsheet ready. She had a single question: "Have you asked us whether we want to move?"
I closed the spreadsheet. We stayed where we were. My penthouse was eventually sold, and I discovered I cared less about its view than I'd expected. I missed the expensive coffee machine. Maisie said our kitchen already had an excellent one because Hannah knew how to heat milk without burning it.
When Maisie turned six, we celebrated with a backyard party. Tessa brought an enormous cake decorated with an uneven blue bow. Omar and Benji attended, both pretending they'd been invited because of their extraordinary party-planning skills. Omar built a balloon arch that promptly collapsed. Benji saved the cake from Pickles. I supplied paper crowns and somehow lost every game the children invented.
Near the end of the party, Maisie approached with her sandwich bag. The plastic was cloudy now, and she had taped one edge to keep it from tearing.
"Mr. Nathan," she said, "I think this money is getting old."
"Money ages surprisingly well."
"Can we buy a better jar for it?"
"We can look at some jars."
"And can I call you something else?"
I stopped walking. Hannah, a few feet away, heard the question and came closer without interrupting.
"What would you like to call me?" I asked.
Maisie looked from Hannah to me. "Sometimes Dad. But not because I bought you. I want it to be because you come back. Is that okay?"
I crouched until my knees nearly touched the grass. "If that's what feels right to you, I'd be honored. And if you change your mind later, I won't be upset."
She considered this response with fierce concentration. Then she hugged me so hard my paper crown fell off.
"Okay, Dad. The cake is almost gone, so hurry."
Hannah was crying when I stood. I was, too, although I blamed the collapsing balloon arch.
Later, alone in the kitchen, she asked whether I'd been startled.
"I think I'm still startled," I admitted.
"She picked the word herself."
"I know. That's what makes it mean something."
Hannah leaned against the counter. "I need to tell you something, Nathan. I've been terrified that loving you would turn into owing you. But this past year hasn't felt like that. It feels like we keep choosing each other, even on ordinary days."
I took her hand. "I feel the same way."
"I don't need a ring tomorrow," she said quickly.
"Good. I haven't planned a speech."
She laughed. "I just want you to know I'm not afraid of a future with you anymore."
A week later, an unfamiliar number called my office. Derek wanted to discuss a public statement saying he'd approved of me joining the family. He believed that might be good publicity for everyone.
"Please coordinate matters involving Maisie through Hannah and the appropriate professionals," I told him. "We aren't putting her private life in another headline."
He called me ungrateful. I ended the conversation.
That evening I arrived home at the house Hannah and Maisie had begun calling ours. Maisie's shoes were scattered near the door. Hannah's project drawings covered the dining table. A half-finished science project occupied the hallway. Pickles greeted me with a stolen oven mitt.
May you like
I used to think love would announce itself with extraordinary events. Instead, it was waiting in a house full of tiny inconveniences that nobody wanted to escape.
For once, the biggest question of my day was whether the blue paint on the hallway wall would wash off before dinner.
