I can’t tonight. Tomorrow ok?
Mom: Sure. Love you. If I’m off the cooking hook, please tell your father to pick up Chinese on the way home.
Will do. X
I message her again as amplifying guilt continues to surround my heart.
I love you, Mom.
Mom: Love you too. By the way, if you’re curious, you were well worth the hellacious sixteen-hour labor but it’s also the reason why you’re an only child.
My heart warms as I recall the story of Mom’s nightmare in delivering me, her finish to the story the best part. As many times as I’ve heard and memorized what she refers to every year as “our day,” I’m not as versed in the story of my parents’ coupling. I’ve never really paid much attention in the adult way. Whenever it was brought up in the past, I always did the typical fake gag routine. Now I wish I had paid closer attention. As it is now, any outsider within a few feet of them can see they love and respect each other, deeply. It’s obvious.
So why is this revelation affecting me so profoundly?
Why did my instincts tell me to lie to her—other than the fact it’s not a subject to broach via text message.
Even so, why am I so afraid to outright ask my father, who just so happens to be the best source?
As I try to reason with myself, I’m terrified of what my gut is saying—my dad wouldn’t have kept their relationship hidden unless he wanted it that way.
It’s one thing to have an ex. It’s another thing entirely to have an ex who went on to marry a world-famous rock star.
Mom has to know. She has to. There’s no way they didn’t have the ex-talk. All couples do at some point, right?
Dad is painfully frank, which some may consider a character flaw, but one which I proudly inherited. Regardless of that, every part of the journalist he cultivated in me is dying to walk across the hall for answers. But this isn’t someone else’s story. It’s fact-checking his personal past that has me chickening out.
Not to mention the fact that the ancient emails have me questioning the authenticity of my parents’ start so soon after his heartbreak and scrutinizing the timeline.
By my quick calculation, my parents married a year after they met. Just a few months ago, they celebrated their twenty-third anniversary. The question of my legitimacy is asinine because I came into the picture months after they wed, a souvenir they created on their month-long honeymoon.
The alarming part is that I deeply felt Stella and my father’s connection while reading. I’m positive if I read more—especially during the thick of their relationship—I would feel it on an even more visceral level. I fear it may haunt me if I don’t get the full story.
Just ask him, Natalie. He’s feet away!
But something about the lingering ache I feel as a spectator after simply reading a dozen or so emails keep me from doing so.
I just inadvertently opened Pandora’s box—a box that doesn’t belong to me, a box I had no right to open.
Far too tempted to go back in, I drag my finger along the screen with the file and linger over the trash, flicking my focus back to Dad as I do so. Confusion, anger for him, and curiosity war in my head as I drag the file away from the trash and opt to hide the email chain in a desktop file before closing out the window.
Nervous energy coursing through me, stomach roiling, I glance around the bustling and recently renovated warehouse Dad converted into a newsroom when he started the paper. A u-shape of executive offices outlines the floor of the small warehouse, one of which I’ve occupied since graduating last spring.
In the center of the floor that Dad nicknamed ‘the pit’ sits rows upon rows of columnists’ desks. Scanning the desks, my eyes land on Herb, an Austin Speak staple who was one of Dad’s first hires. Herb is in his late sixties now and comes in on a part-time basis. At this point, it’s safe to say he’s more of a fixture than an integral part of the paper. Though that’s the case now, he was present then and undoubtedly laid witness to Stella and my father’s relationship.
Standing abruptly—without a clue as to how I’ll approach it—I take a step toward my office door when my dad pauses across the pit, sensing my movement in his peripheral. He glances over at me, his lips lifting and forming his signature smile. Unable to school myself in time, his brows draw when he reads my expression.
Stay cool, Natalie.
Doing my best to ease the conflict inside, I muster a reassuring smile, but I can already tell it’s too late. Dad’s features etch in concern as he mouths an “Okay?”