Chapter 2

With my friend Mike’s support, I stumbled upon a promising job opportunity in a city located fifty miles away, at State College. Embracing this chance for a fresh start, I gradually established a new routine. I channeled my energy into my career, often dedicating long hours to my work. It proved to be a better alternative than lingering at home, entangled in contemplation over the unexpected twists my life had taken.

I persisted in my attempts to reconstruct the puzzle, but my efforts repeatedly led to dead ends. I found myself playing the role of a detective, piecing together a complex case, often voicing my thoughts aloud in a bid to unravel the mystery. The incident involving the bat, the series of events with Mom, and the concocted narratives — they just didn’t mesh together. I was convinced that Molly wasn’t genuinely afraid of me, and the bat episode was completely exaggerated. Moreover, Mom wasn’t genuinely upset by my actions. So, who inflated these accounts? Dad provided the testimonials, yet he couldn’t have known about Molly and he showed no interest in my life since I left home.

The convoluted nature of the situation fueled my determination to decipher the truth, much like a puzzle demanding to be solved.

I paused my dissertation, frustrated at the usual, unsatisfactory conclusion. Over the span of a few years, I held onto the hope that things might improve, yet that hope remained unfulfilled. I found myself scouring news articles from my hometown, keeping a vigilant eye on updates from Maria’s school, hopeful to catch a glimpse of her name. One day, during one of my searches, my determination paid off as I stumbled upon Maria’s presence on a social media platform. Thankfully, her profile was public, granting me access to her posts and her circle of friends.

A sense of relief washed over me when I noticed that Mom was among her friends, presumably assuming her role as a vigilant, protective grandmother. This reassurance deepened as I came across posts showing Maria spending time at my mother’s house. Molly had, indeed, kept her promise, employing my mother in my place. The anxiety that had gripped me began to subside, replaced by a measure of solace, as I witnessed Maria maintain a healthy connection with her family.

After dedicating myself to years of diligent effort and a series of promotions, an increased salary provided me with the means to acquire a charming, modest house. It featured two bedrooms, each accompanied by its own bathroom. While it might not have been opulent, I found myself drawn to its simplicity. The cupboards, however, bore evidence of my focus on work rather than home, lacking the typical abundance found in well-stocked kitchens.

During one of my online searches, I stumbled upon an obituary for Karl Atkins, my father. Strangely, the inability to attend his funeral, owing to the restrictions of my legal circumstances, failed to evoke any strong emotion within me. A drunk driver cut his life short at fifty, leaving me to ponder whether Mom would consider remarrying or be open to speaking with me again.

Prompted by curiosity, I dialed Jim’s number and quickly confirmed that my father’s passing hadn’t shifted the dynamics of the case; if anything, it seemed to fortify their position. He tried contacting Mom but after a few attempts, didn’t pursue it, fearing she’d report him to the court system.

Several more years elapsed, and my elevated role at work granted me the luxury of additional leisure time. I made an effort to explore local attractions, attempting to immerse myself in the community. However, these excursions often ended abruptly whenever I encountered a parent with their child; the sight served as a poignant reminder of my own situation, prompting me to retreat back home.

At a certain juncture, a decision emerged. I resolved to transform the spare bedroom into a space reminiscent of my daughter’s room. This endeavor provided me with a sense of purpose, as I embarked on a quest to locate furnishings. Visiting various furniture shops and stores, I diligently assembled the components to resemble her room, attempting to preserve the memories I had shared with her. It was a way to hold onto a connection that had been severed, a touchstone to a chapter of my life that was irrevocably altered.

Having secured the bones for her room, I embarked on the journey of adding personal touches. Bed linens that matched hers, were carefully selected, alongside the children’s books we used to read together and a collection of the games I had gifted her on her birthdays and Christmas. Over the course of the following year, I painstakingly gathered the remaining items that I could vividly recall from her original room.

Drawing from her online postings, I copied and printed an array of photographs showcasing her engagement in various activities. Framing these snapshots, I thoughtfully arranged them on her dresser, intentionally positioning them within my line of sight as I sat at her play table. With the arrangements complete, a sense of satisfaction washed over me. Settling into a chair, I surrendered myself to the vivid tapestry of memories that the recreated space held.

Suddenly, doubt descended. “What kind of sick fuck, am I?” I silently questioned the weight of my actions crashing down upon me. The stark reality dawned on me. I was suffering from some sort of mental breakdown, creating a room for someone who was no longer part of my life.

Fearing I’d gone down a rabbit hole I couldn’t escape, I shortened the time spent spying on her social pages and decreased the frequency I visited her recreated sanctuary.

However, I granted myself an exception on her eighteenth birthday. My phone rested on her table as I allowed my mind to wander into the treasured memories of Maria and myself. In some subconscious corner, a hope nestled, yearning for a notification, a chirp from my phone that would be filled with my daughter’s radiant voice. The hours trickled by, but the room remained draped in silence. Eventually, as night descended, I withdrew from my daughter’s make-believe castle, my heart heavy with the realization that my dream had, once again, eluded me.

On a sunny afternoon in May, I retrieved a letter from the mailbox, my heart pounding as I hastened to the spare bedroom. The return address indicated that it was from Maria Atkins. The realization that my daughter had reached out to me sent a wave of apprehension through me. Anxiety coursed through me as I pondered, “Would her letter be filled with resentment for my absence, for the years that had kept us apart?”

Summoning my courage, I tore open the envelope, my hands trembling as I unfolded the contents. Inside, I discovered a ticket along with a neatly handwritten note. It read, “Daddy, I’d like you to attend my graduation ceremony. Mom’s ticket is seated four rows down and to the left, so you can avoid meeting her. She doesn’t know I invited you. I’ve also made reservations for dinner at Chin’s at eight pm after the ceremony. I would love to meet with you, if it’s not too uncomfortable.”

I read her note multiple times, my heart racing with a mix of emotions. Tenderly placing her letter into a picture frame, I set it atop her dresser, joining the other mementos. An overwhelming surge of happiness washed over me. After years of yearning and of imagining this moment, my daughter and I would finally be reunited.

I had never felt such a rush of nerves, as I did on the night I stepped into my daughter’s high school auditorium. As I located my designated seat, my eyes darted around, scanning for Molly, my ex-wife, based on the location Maria had provided. But to my astonishment, it was my mother who occupied that spot.

There she was, unexpectedly sitting where Molly should have been. My gaze was fixated on my mother, her presence evoking a tidal wave of emotions. A decade had passed since I last saw her, yet her appearance seemed to defy time itself. Perhaps a few traces of gray had emerged in her silky, dark brunette hair, but her face retained its elegant beauty. She looked years younger than her age of fifty-five.

The commencement ceremony began, and my gaze alternated between the stage and my mother. Eventually, the presenter’s voice rose to announce Maria’s name. As she stepped onto the stage, a peculiar stillness overcame me. For a fleeting instant, I was convinced I was looking at Molly, but I swiftly recognized that it was indeed Maria, now a mature version of herself. Her resemblance to her mother was striking, a beautiful echo of Molly’s features.

A fleeting glance in my direction, followed by a gentle smile, confirmed her recognition of my presence. As I caught sight of Mom turning to face me, I instinctively slouched lower in my seat, seeking refuge behind the person seated in front of me, concealing me from her line of sight.

After Maria’s moment on the stage concluded, I slipped away in hushed steps, making my way out of the auditorium and finding solace in my car. My breaths came in rapid succession, almost mirroring the pace of a panic attack. “What is happening to me?” I questioned myself, perplexed by the turmoil inside me. Initially, I had every intention of joining Maria at the restaurant as planned, but a wave of trepidation surged through me.

The realization hit me like a tidal wave. Maria was no longer the little girl I remembered, but a fully grown and stunningly beautiful woman, one who bore an uncanny resemblance to my ex-wife. A wave of emotions from the memories of Molly sent my thoughts spiraling, leaving me overwhelmed and uncertain.

Fearing the permanent loss of Maria, if I didn’t meet her at Chin’s, compelled me to take action. Strengthening my determination, I navigated my way to the restaurant, arriving a half-hour before our scheduled meeting. As I surveyed the establishment, a particular booth caught my attention. It boasted ideal lighting and an aura of intimacy, all while granting me an unobstructed view of the entrance. After the hostess guided me to my seat, I remained vigilant, eagerly anticipating my daughter’s arrival, while sipping on an iced tea.

A couple of minutes before our designated meeting time, Maria appeared, her eyes swiftly sweeping across the tables, undoubtedly in search of her father. Upon spotting me, I greeted her with a friendly wave, which successfully captured her focus, bringing forth a radiant smile. With a playful gait, she approached, gracefully leaned over, and placed a tender kiss on my cheek before settling into her seat.

“Hi, Daddy,” she chimed, her gratitude evident in her words. “Thanks for accepting my invitation. I was worried you might be a no-show.”

As her affectionate kiss continued to warm my cheeks, I mustered a response, still feeling a hint of bashfulness. “To be honest, once I saw you at the ceremony, I almost didn’t. However, I hated to lose you again, so I decided to show up.”

Her lustrous golden-brown locks cascaded gently, just brushing her shoulders, creating a delicate frame around her endearing face. Her smile, wide and effervescent, illuminated the room, while her hazel-green eyes danced with genuine joy. The fringe of her bangs veiled a portion of her forehead, beautifully accentuating her elevated cheekbones. As I gazed upon her, I couldn’t help but draw parallels to Molly, my ex-wife. As our eyes met, my cheeks flushed, as she caught me staring at her profound beauty.

“It’s not difficult to figure out why, Dad,” she replied, with compassionate insight. “It’s because I look like Mom, isn’t it? Will you always hate me, because I remind you of her?”

Her adorable, pouty expression remained unchanged from her childhood. My heart sank, realizing I had unintentionally hurt her feelings. Reaching across the table, I gently held her hands and said, “Of course not, sweetie. I love you, no matter what, and you should be proud to inherit your mother’s beauty. I don’t hate her — we simply chose different paths.”

Her inquisitive look suggested that she might be more aware of our divorce than she had let on. Shifting the topic, I noted, “Speaking of Molly, I noticed my mother occupying her assigned seat tonight.”

Nodding, Maria explained, “Mom had some important matters to attend to. I didn’t mind, though. Grandma has been more involved in my upbringing than Mom, so having her present brought me joy. I considered inviting her to join us for dinner, but I thought it might make you uncomfortable.”

“Good call,” I responded, my tone displaying gratitude. “One step at a time. Receiving your invitation completely caught me off-guard, but it brightened my day in a way I can’t quite express.”

Maria’s expression shifted to apprehension, as she cautiously admitted, “I have a confession to make. When I turned eighteen, I contacted your friend Mike and managed to persuade him to share your whereabouts with me. Subsequently, I’ve made a few visits to your workplace and discreetly engaged in conversations with your co-workers.”

Curious as to her motives, I inquired, “Really? Why’d you want to speak to them?”

She paused, while collecting her thoughts and responded, “I was concerned about being intrusive, especially if you had moved on, remarried, and started a new family. The last thing I wanted was to suddenly appear as your long-lost daughter without any warning. If you hadn’t shared your past with your current wife, it could have been catastrophic. I couldn’t bear the thought of unintentionally disrupting your life.”

Her words struck me, the depth of her consideration surprised and touched me.

“That’s very thoughtful of you. It clearly shows Mom’s influence on you, given how she always emphasized the importance of prioritizing others’ well-being. Did my colleagues tell you that I’m a horrible taskmaster or worse?” I inquired playfully, injecting a touch of jest into my words.

Maria’s grin broadened as she responded, “Actually, quite the opposite. They described you as a compassionate, thoughtful man who treated them with more kindness than any previous manager. They also stated that you never mentioned any personal relationships outside of work. As for whether I felt relieved or a bit saddened, I can’t quite decide.”

“Well, it helps to have an exceptional team working with me. My interactions with them are mostly about occasionally steering them in the right direction,” I remarked, my appreciation for my colleagues evident. “As for the dating scene, my focus on work has left little room for that. But I’m curious, why did you have mixed emotions upon hearing that?”

“I was sad, because I’d hoped that you’d discover happiness in your new life. Yet, a sense of relief washed over me upon learning that you were single. It meant that reconnecting with you wouldn’t potentially disrupt your existing family dynamics. Am I selfish, because I wanted you for myself?”

A reassuring smile crossed my lips as I responded, “Of course not. You’re my daughter, and it’s a perfectly normal desire to want to reconnect with your father. I appreciate the effort you put into finding me, given the difficulties arising from the legalities of our case.”

With the ice broken, the remainder of the meal seemed to glide by in an instant. The conversation flowed smoothly, primarily led by her animated storytelling. It was easy to slip back into the role of the attentive listener, hearing my daughter recount the chapters of her life. As the night drew to a close, contentment settled within me as I experienced more happiness than I had in years.

After we finished dinner, we exchanged contact information, promising to keep in touch. With a genuine smile, she asked to reconvene in a few days, eager to continue building our renewed friendship.

She routinely sent texts, sometimes two or three times a day. Following several more evenings spent dining together, she brought up a new topic, her voice carrying a hint of excitement, “Dad, I’ve been thinking about applying to State College. Would you be willing to show me around sometime this week?”

“I’d love to,” I answered without hesitation, my enthusiasm mirroring hers. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

“No need for that. That’d be a lot of driving for you. How about if I meet you at the campus on Thursday afternoon? Will that work for you?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I confirmed. “It’ll allow plenty of time for me to give you the grand tour.”

Thursday arrived, and upon receiving her message that she had arrived outside my building, I promptly stepped out to welcome her. Our tour commenced with a visit to my office, where I took pleasure in witnessing the array of expressions that crossed my staff, when I proudly presented Maria as my daughter. It was evident that many had already engaged in conversation with her, and their puzzled looks hinted that they might have been mentally retracing their words to ensure no unfavorable remarks about me had slipped through.

Exploring the remaining buildings consumed several more hours. It didn’t help that a number of familiar faces had to stop and chat, curious as to the woman accompanying me. After explaining that Maria was interested in attending the college, several made enthusiastic pitches for their field of expertise. At the conclusion, I apologized, “Maria, I’m sorry we took so long. I had hoped to get you out of here a lot sooner.”

“No problem, Dad. I enjoyed every moment,” she replied, her smile genuine. “The conversations with the teachers we met have piqued my interest for other academic options that I hadn’t previously considered. By the way, would you mind showing me your house? I’d like to see where you live.”

“Of course, just a heads up, it’s probably not as grand as what you’re accustomed to, and it might be a bit untidy,” I warned her playfully.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she replied, easing my angst. “I’ll follow you but I’d like to stop by a grocery store on the way and grab a few things. Is that okay with you?”

“No problem. If I lose you, I’ll text you directions,” I countered.

She followed me into a shopping lot and once inside the store, I became the basket holder for her purchases.

Observing her collection of fresh vegetables and pasta, I quipped, “Do you want me to lend you my cooler to take your groceries home?”

She giggled, her eyes sparkling, “No need for that, silly. I’m cooking you dinner. I’m hungry, and I’m eager to show you how well Grandma’s cooking lessons have stuck with me.”

I protested, feeling touched by her intention, “You don’t have to go through all that trouble. We could go out to one of my favorite restaurants instead. I didn’t intend for you to labor on my behalf.”