Chapter 7: Sunday
Diane called on a Wednesday.
She had my number from the text exchange, and she asked if Wednesday worked, and I said yes before I had time to think about whether I was ready.
Her voice was lower than I expected.
Careful with pauses, the way Rebecca was careful with pauses — thinking before the words came out, leaving space for the other person to settle in.
"I want to say first," she said, "that I never wanted to cause problems for your family."
"I know."
"Your father — he's a good man.
He helped me when I had no one else to ask.
I want you to know that I didn't pursue a relationship with him.
He's the one who kept calling."
I hadn't known that.
"He kept calling," I repeated.
"After the money, after I was better, I thought that would be the end of it.
But he called the next Sunday.
And the one after that.
I think — " She paused.
"I think he needed somewhere to put the part of himself that felt guilty.
And I was the only person who knew about it."
I sat with that for a moment.
"Are you angry at him?" I asked.
"No," she said.
"I understand why he did it the way he did it.
I don't think it was right.
But I understand it."
"Rebecca wants to meet you," I said.
"If you're open to that."
A pause.
"I've thought about meeting you both for a long time," Diane said.
"I just didn't think it was my place to ask."
We arranged it for the following Saturday.
A coffee shop, neutral ground, the kind of place where you could leave easily if you needed to.
Rebecca's idea — she had been the one to think through the logistics with a practicality that surprised me until I remembered she had spent years navigating medical appointments and waiting rooms and the careful management of hope.
James offered to come.
We both said no.
This was ours first.
Saturday arrived grey and cool, the kind of morning that felt appropriate for something that required steadiness.
I brought Lily in the carrier against my chest.
Rebecca met me outside the coffee shop and we stood on the pavement for a moment without speaking.
"Are you nervous?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Me too."
We went in.
Diane was already there.
She was sitting at a corner table with both hands wrapped around a mug, and she looked up when we walked in and I saw it immediately — the thing that James had not prepared us for, the thing that no amount of careful explanation could have softened.
She had Rebecca's eyes.
Not similar.
Not reminiscent of.
The same shape, the same particular stillness in them, the same way they moved to assess a room before settling.
Rebecca stopped walking.
Diane stood up.
For a moment none of us said anything.
Then Lily made a small sound against my chest — not crying, just the soft unconscious noise of a baby adjusting in sleep — and Diane's expression broke open into something unguarded and warm.
"She's beautiful," Diane said.
"Her name is Lily," I said.
Diane looked at me.
Then at Rebecca.
Then back at me.
"I've been practicing what to say," she said.
"I had a whole — I had things prepared.
And now I can't remember any of it."
Rebecca laughed.
It came out shaky and real and nothing like her usual careful laugh.
"Neither can I," she said.
They looked at each other across the small table.
"You have my eyes," Rebecca said.
"I know," Diane said.
"I noticed in the photos your father showed me."
"He showed you photos."
"Of both of you.
Yes." She hesitated.
"He talked about you a lot.
Both of you.
He's very proud of you."
Rebecca sat down.
Not gracefully — just sat, the way she had sat on the grass in the backyard, like her body had simply decided.
"I'm angry at him," she said.
"I want you to know that.
I'm angry at him for keeping this from us.
But I'm not angry at you."
"I know," Diane said.
"I'm angry at him too, a little.
For not telling you sooner." She sat back down.
"I think he was afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of losing the version of himself that you both believed in."
The coffee shop was quiet around us.
Someone at the counter was steaming milk.
A man near the window was reading a newspaper.
Everything ordinary, everything continuing, while the three of us sat in a corner and tried to figure out what we were to each other.
"Can I hold her?" Diane asked.
"Lily.
If that's all right."
I looked at her.
I thought about the backyard.
The f!re p!t.
My arms tightening.
The instinct that had lived in my chest since the moment Lily was born.
I lifted Lily from the carrier and placed her in Diane's arms.
Diane held her the way someone holds something they have been careful with their whole life — gently, with full attention, like she understood the weight of what she was being trusted with.
Lily opened her eyes.
Looked up at Diane's face.
Then closed them again.
"Hello," Diane said softly.
"I'm your aunt."
Rebecca made a sound beside me.
May you like
I reached over and took her hand.
She held on.
