Chapter 8: What I Told Them
I had thought about this conversation for five years.
Not in a planning way.
In the way you think about something you know is coming and can't quite make yourself prepare for — turning it over in the back of your mind while you're making school lunches and answering emails and watching three small people become themselves.
I had never found the perfect words.
Sitting on the living room floor with the board game between us, I decided there weren't any.
There was only the truth, in the simplest version I could give them.
*The man from the restaurant,* I said.
*His name is Sebastian.
And he is your father.*
Lucas picked up his game piece again and put it down.
Ethan looked at his hands.
Sophie looked at me.
*Why wasn't he here?* Ethan asked.
He said it the way he asked most things — directly, without anger, just wanting the information.
*Because some people made choices that kept him from knowing you existed,* I said.
*Not him.
Other people.
And I didn't know how to find him in a way that felt safe for all of us.*
*Were you scared?* Sophie asked.
*Yes,* I said.
*For a long time.*
*Are you still scared?*
I thought about it honestly.
*A little.
But less than I was.*
*Does he want to meet us?* Lucas asked.
He was looking at the board game, not at me.
*Yes,* I said.
*Very much.*
*Does he know our names?*
*He does now.*
Lucas nodded slowly.
*Okay.*
*Okay?* Ethan repeated, looking at his brother.
*I mean—* Lucas shrugged, the elaborate shrug of a five-year-old processing something large.
*It's okay.
I just want to know if he's nice.*
*I think he is,* I said.
*But you'll get to decide that for yourselves.*
Sophie had been quiet for a moment.
Now she looked up.
*What about the lady?* she said.
*The one with the shiny ring.*
*Olivia.*
*She looked at us like we were a problem,* Sophie said.
I looked at my daughter — five years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor, reading a room the way some people never learn to.
*She was surprised,* I said carefully.
*She didn't know about you either.*
*But she didn't look surprised,* Sophie said.
*She looked scared.*
I didn't answer that.
*Is she going to be our stepmom?* Ethan asked.
*I don't know,* I said.
*That's not something I can answer right now.*
*I don't want a stepmom who looks at us like a problem,* Lucas said.
*That's a fair thing to feel,* I said.
---
Sebastian and I met four days later.
Not at a restaurant.
Not anywhere public.
I suggested the small conference room at Diane's office.
Neutral ground, no audience, somewhere I could leave quickly if I needed to.
He was already there when I arrived.
Standing by the window, hands in his pockets, looking out at the street below.
He turned when I came in.
He looked like he hadn't slept much.
The polish was still there — it was probably structural at this point — but underneath it something had shifted.
He looked like a man who had spent four days taking apart a version of his own life and finding different materials underneath than he had expected.
*Thank you for coming,* he said.
*Sit down,* I said.
*We have a lot to cover.*
We sat across from each other at the conference table.
*I want to say something before anything else,* he said.
*And I don't want you to respond to it right away.
I just want to say it.*
I nodded.
*I should have looked for you,* he said.
*I know what my mother told me.
I know what Olivia did.
But I also know that I was a man with resources and I chose to believe what I was told instead of finding out for myself.
That's on me.
Not just on them.*
I looked at him.
*I had a high-risk pregnancy,* I said.
*I was in that hospital for eleven days.
I called you eleven times.
I wrote you a letter by hand.*
*I know.*
*I'm not telling you that to punish you,* I said.
*I'm telling you because I need you to understand what those eleven days were like.
Alone.
Not knowing if the children were going to make it.
Not knowing where you were.
Not knowing if you were ever coming.*
He didn't look away.
*I understand.*
*Do you?*
*No,* he said quietly.
*Not fully.
I don't think I'm capable of fully understanding it.
But I'm trying to.*
That was, I thought, probably the most honest thing he had said to me in six years.
*My lawyer has been in contact with yours,* I said.
*Yes.*
*The paternity process—*
*I'm not going to make it difficult,* he said.
*I want it on record.
I want it official.
They're my children and I want that to be a legal fact.*
*Good.* I folded my hands on the table.
*Then we need to talk about what comes next.
Not legally.
Practically.
What does it look like for you to be in their lives?*
*Whatever you're comfortable with,* he said.
*I mean that.
I'm not going to walk in and demand anything.
I know I don't have that right.*
*You have more right than you think,* I said.
*They're yours.
But how we do this matters.*
*Tell me what you need.*
*Slow,* I said.
*We go slow.
You meet them somewhere easy — a park, somewhere they feel safe.
No pressure.
No big explanations.
Just a person they're getting to know.*
*Yes.*
*And if at any point they're uncomfortable, we stop and we reassess.*
*Of course.*
*And Eleanor,* I said.
*She does not have access to my children.
Not now, not without a conversation I have not yet agreed to have.
If that's a problem for you—*
*It's not,* he said.
*I've already told her that.*
I looked at him.
*How did she take it?*
Something crossed his face.
*She told me I was making an emotional decision and that I would regret it.*
*What did you say?*
*I said that for once in my life I was making the right one.* He paused.
*She didn't speak to me for two days after that.*
*And Olivia?*
He was quiet for a moment.
*She moved out,* he said.
*Three days ago.*
I didn't say anything.
*She told me she couldn't stay in a situation where she wasn't certain I had chosen her,* he said.
*I told her I understood.
I told her I was sorry.*
*Are you?*
*For her,* he said carefully.
*Yes.
She made choices I can't forgive.
But she also spent five years with a man who was — who wasn't fully present, because part of me always knew something wasn't right.
That wasn't fair to her either.*
I considered that.
*That's generous of you,* I said.
*I'm trying,* he said.
*I don't know if I'm doing it right.*
We sat in silence for a moment.
*Sebastian,* I said.
*I need you to understand something about what we're building here.
This is not a reconciliation.
I'm not open to that conversation.
What I am open to is building something stable and good for three children who deserve to know their father.*
*I understand,* he said.
*Do you?*
He met my eyes.
*Yes.
And for what it's worth — I think what you built for them, alone, for five years — I think that's extraordinary.
I've read everything I could find about Little Harvest Kitchen.
I've looked at the school partnerships.
I've seen the photographs from the staff holiday party where all three of them are wearing aprons and covered in flour.*
I blinked.
*How did you find those?*
*Your company Instagram,* he said.
*It's public.*
I laughed.
It came out before I could stop it — short, surprised, genuine.
He smiled.
It was a careful smile, like he wasn't sure he had the right to it yet.
*They look happy,* he said.
*In every single one.*
May you like
*They are,* I said.
*They really are.*
