“I never meant to hurt them,” he says. “I want you to know that. I was in wild, red rage, separated from reality.”
I get that. I do. But.
“I can’t forgive you. I love you, Dad. But I can’t.”
He bows his head and releases a deep breath. When he looks up, a single tear trails down his face. “Love is enough, Robin. That’s more than enough.”
Don’t love him, Jay said, speaking from his anger. He doesn’t deserve it.
But the truth is that we all deserve that, even the most damaged and twisted among us. It’s the least we deserve. And if there was more of it, there would be a lot less pain in this world we share.
I place my hand on my belly, which has just started to swell to the point where my clothes don’t fit. I was barely able to squeeze into the dress I’m wearing.
“Something you need to tell me?” he asks gently.
I tell him everything. About my memories of our land, of him and the things he taught me, how they stayed with me, my journey from that horrible night. I tell him about you, Adam. About how you stalked me and would have killed me, and killed three other women like me, Bonnie, Melissa, Mia—those carrying the burden of guilt, shame, and anger, but looking for love. How I couldn’t help them; how I was far too late for them, as I was for Jay and my mother. How you were a monster, a ruthless predator. And that I ended you.
My question is, Dear Birdie, how do you move forward in life without offering forgiveness to those who have wronged you? How can you forgive yourself for your own failings and dark deeds? Can you find health, happiness, and wholeness without it?
But I don’t need Dear Birdie—that wiser part of myself—to answer my question.
And then I tell my father that I am carrying your child, Adam. And how I know in my heart that this child will be well and good, and that she will have a safe place in this world.
One that I have created.
I pull the sonogram printout from my pocket and press it up to the glass. If he is unsettled by any of this, it doesn’t show. He accepts it all.
“What will you call her?” he asks.
“I’ll call her Emily, the girl who is in Robin’s grave.”
“That makes sense,” he says. “A rebirth.”
“That’s right.”
“The past is gone, little bird. Go forward, don’t look back.”
Funny. I think that’s exactly what Dear Birdie would say.
fifty-five
In the end, all we have is each other.
The drive home is long and hard, and I am exhausted when I return to the town house. The door swings open when I get to the top of the steps, and there’s Jax waiting with open arms. I fall into her, my best friend, and as of this week, my roommate. She’s smells of patchouli and lemongrass; her arms are soft and strong.
“You didn’t call,” she says. “You promised you’d call when you were on your way home.”
“I needed the time to process.”
“I tracked you.”
“I know.”
She’s leasing out her apartment and has moved into the town house. We’re not getting married, our long-standing joke, but she’s going to be my family, our family. She’s going to help me raise this baby. I am going to help her write her book. She’s going to be a regular guest on my Dear Birdie podcast. And sometimes she’s going to be Dear Birdie—a tougher, more kick-ass version of my Dear Birdie. She and Ben—are seeing each other, a lot. How is that going to work? We have no idea. One moment at a time.
I find Ben at the dining room table, going through the Dear Birdie letters for our podcast tomorrow. He rises to embrace me.
“Need to talk?” he asks. He has a way about him, something gentle and yet strong, quietly present, easy. He’s Jax’s opposite, but also her match, in every way.
“Not right now,” I say, squeezing him and releasing.
“Anytime.”
“Uh,” says Jax, lowering her voice to a whisper, “he’s in the kitchen. Were you expecting him? He brought groceries? And he just looked so—eager to be here? I couldn’t turn him away.”
Bailey Kirk. I was expecting him. Hoping to see him.
“I think he’s—cooking?” she says with a smile.
Something about that guy. I return her grin.
When I move back over toward her, she rests her hand on my belly. “How’s our girl?”
I put my hand on hers, our fingers entwine. “Good.” I’m talking about the baby and about myself. “Healthy. Whole.”