But.
It’s all worth it. People that never noticed me before, notice me now. They smile, they nod at my stomach. They ask how far along we are, and do we know what we’re having, and oh-my-god-aren’t-you-guys-so-excited?!
And we tell them, yes. Yes, we are.
Are you?
They say that life is defined in moments. That with every decision we make, we alter the course of our destiny and yada, yada, fucking yada. Make the wrong decision, and it’s sink or swim, sister.
Are you?
Nicholas made me (and yes, I use that term loosely) give up the child that wasn’t his. He talked me into it, into the direction I really didn’t need much talking into in the first place, to be honest. So no, I don’t blame him for the decision I made all those years ago. Truth be told, he didn’t make me do anything.
Are you?
Nicholas would never raise another man’s child. That’s a fact I don’t question. But, if I take it further, slipping in my own, shall we say, unique perspective: Nicholas would never knowingly raise another man’s child.
Are you?
Judges don’t favor mothers. Not in the way society thinks. They favor families. Wholesome, good-to-the-bone families. The kind with warm kitchens and cheery smiles and apple pies cooling on their counters. And Ford? He comes from that type of family. He’s part of a team, a whole entire team that’s good-to-the-bone and has the sort of apple pie charisma the courts look for. He has the kind of parents that have his back, that can step in and provide whenever or if ever he can’t.
Ford is ripe security.
And me? I’m…not. Not on my own, at least.
Are you?
In the last three months, Nicholas and I slept together one time.
And me and Ford? Well…how many stars are there in the sky?
Are you?
Ford isn’t the type of guy to walk away from a pregnant woman. Or, more accurately, he isn’t the type of guy to walk away from his child.
Are you?
If this child is Ford’s (and let’s face it, it probably is), then Nicholas will divorce me. Immediately. And prenup, prenup, that lovely prenup will make sure I get nothing. Which will just make it all the easier for Ford to take my baby.
Take, take, take.
Are you?
The loathing in his eyes. The deep, dark hate filling his gaze.
“Are you?”
And I told him no. No, I wasn’t pregnant.
He huffed out a thought so and walked away.
I’ve steered clear of him since.
Almost five years later…
In fact, when it really comes down to it, no one makes us do anything.
We act like victims, think like victims, and hell, some of us even like being victims. Because then we don’t have to take responsibility for the shit we cause, the chaos we create. We steer clear of triggers so we never have to deal with them; we numb our sadness so much we lose the ability to feel anything at all; we relish clashing with our enemies to the point that, eventually, we become the very thing we’re fighting against.
And all the while – all the while – everything that we refuse to look at keeps building up, up, up, clogging our minds and souring our perspectives.
In some form or another, I’ve lived the role of victim my entire life. Drowned sorrow in gin and donned helplessness like it was a designer wardrobe, blaming people, blaming fate, blaming whatever Almighty Being is running the show. I sharped my edges and abraded my wounds; I spit and hissed and raised my hackles at the unfairness of life, and I used my past as the reason for not taking responsibility for my future.
Turns out I’m not a victim.
When it comes to my life now, I choose. I choose what’s best.
For me.
And, more importantly, for Grayson.
I look at him now, sipping his hot chocolate, and my heart swells so much I can barely stand it. When he catches me staring, he pulls the mug away from his lips and grins.
“You have a chocolate mustache,” I tell him, running the side of my finger over the top of my lip.
He giggles. “Like Daddy!”
I nod. “Yep. Just like Daddy. But,” I say, dipping my finger in the whipped cream floating atop my own drink, “you need a beard, too.” I dab the cream on his chin, and he laughs harder, drawing stares from the other diners.
Adoring stares.
Because my Grayson is the most beautiful child in the whole entire world.
“There. Perfect.”
He leaves the blob there, happy to resemble the man he believes to be a real, honest-to-goodness hero. And sure, with the new beard Nicholas has acquired since Grayson was born, he does look a bit like Thor. If, that is, the God of Thunder ever sported Armani business suits and Stefano Ricci ties.
As for me, I like the beard. It fits his new personality.
The Nicholas after Grayson is far more carefree than the Nicholas before.
For the last four and a half years, I feel like I’ve been married to a new man.
I’ve heard it said that children can put a damper on marriage, on the intimacy between spouses. For us, the opposite has proven to be true.
Does this make me bitter, that my husband transformed his way of life for Grayson and not me? That it basically took bearing a child to gain his attention, his affection?
Nope, it doesn’t. Truly. Really.
Not.
At.
All.
Grayson turns his attention to his coloring book, which is more like an astronomy workbook for kids. At four years old, he can already point out constellations (his first word was moon) and gets a kick out of the fact that Sirius is also known as the Dog Star. (He loves dogs, by the way. We have two now, both Golden Retrievers. And no, I didn’t steal them.) It amazes me, how smart he is, and sending him off to kindergarten this fall is going to gut me.
He’s also loving, so damn loving. Not to mention, sweet and kind and thoughtful, compassionate and empathetic and caring…all traits he gets from his dad, obviously.
But I’m getting better. I am. Grayson is showing me how to be better.
He is, after all, my absolute everything. Better than I deserve. Though I work hard every day, hoping to eventually earn the right to be his mom.
But for now, I’m simply #blessed.
We both return to our work, Grayson coloring one of Jupiter’s moons and me working on a poem in the old leather notebook I’ve been carrying with me for the last four and a half years.
The clank-clatter of silverware fills the diner, and the hum of voices rise and fall like the waves on the Great Lake, and we when the waitress brings our lunch, I don’t even need to urge Grayson to put away his book so he can eat. He does it by himself.
Because he’s perfect.
He cuts his chicken strips into bite-sized pieces without help from me, little prodigy that he is.
“I like your hair today,” he says, ignoring his food for a moment and turning his sunshine gaze on me.
That gaze, that gaze, that sunshine gaze.
Reaching up, I smooth my hand over the dark strands. The length falls just below my chin, a straight cut that exudes no-nonsense sophistication. “Oh, yeah?”
He nods, furrows his little brow. “It’s black, but sorta blue, too. Like the sky at night.”
“You know, you’re right. Pretty cool, huh?” I pull down my glasses, red frames with clear lenses, and shoot him a wink. “Thanks, munchkin.”