“Yet you still called.”
Brianna’s mother is still the rawest nerve in my life. The way she left us, like marriage and motherhood were disposable titles, still boils my blood. Last I heard, she was floating through Asia with some boy toy, not a care in the world.
I don’t keep in contact. I just pay a PI to check in every now and then. Not because I give a damn, but in case Brianna ever asks, I’ll have the answer ready.
She never does. Never even says her name. But I know Bri wonders. I know she misses her mom in ways she won’t admit.
But I don’t miss my ex-wife. I don’t think about her unless I have to.
Vanessa laughs awkwardly. “Still working at the office late, I see?”
“Clearly.”
“How’s… how’s work?”
“Same as always.” I flip a page. “Say what you called to say.”
A pause. “I saw a photo of Bri. The one Maggie posted of her science fair thing? She looked tall. Older.”
“She is.”
Another pause. “How is she?”
“Fine.”
She exhales. “Does she sleep okay? Is she eating? Still drawing all the time?”
“She’s fine, Vanessa. Cut the shit.” I’m tired of the circling. “What do you want?”
“I want to see her.”
“No.”
“Right out the gate?” She clicks her tongue. “Still charming.”
“You said that last time,” I say, eyes on the darkening Seattle skyline. “And the time before that. You never show. I’m not doing this again, Vanessa. It always ends with my kid crying into her pillow.”
“I had a job, Worth. I had things?—”
“You always have things.”
“You make me the villain every time I try,” she snaps. “I want to be present. She’s my daughter.”
“She’sourdaughter,” I correct. “And Brianna needs consistency more than your apologies.”
“I can do next Sunday,” Vanessa rushes out. “Two hours, public place. You can sit at the next table if that makes you feel more in control.”
“What makes me feel in control is knowing my daughter won’t spend time getting ready for someone who won’t arrive.”
“You think I don’t feel sick about that? You think I don’t?—”
“I don’t think about you,” I cut in. “I think aboutBrianna.”
“God, you’re impossible.” A jagged breath. “Fine. Keep her from me. Keep playing the perfect dad?—”
“I’m not perfect,” I say. “But it’s more than you’ll ever be.”
Another silence. When she speaks again, it’s low. “If you don’t let me see her, I’ll call my lawyer.”