A perfect daughter.
A stable daughter.
A daughter any mother in a custody fight might suddenly want connected to her name.
I sat back from the computer and rubbed my eyes.
I was not angry at first.
I was tired.
There is a special kind of exhaustion that comes from realizing someone has had twenty-four years to change and may have spent every one of them perfecting the same selfishness.
The next Saturday, Emma drove up from Cincinnati. Rain fell all afternoon, the kind of cold Ohio rain that makes old injuries announce themselves. She found me in the garage organizing tools I had already organized twice.
“You’ve been thinking too hard,” she said.
“What gives it away?”
“You alphabetized your screwdriver drawer.”
“That’s called discipline.”
“That’s called emotional distress.”
We sat in folding chairs beside the workbench while rain tapped the garage door. I had a coffee. She had tea because hospital work had turned her stomach against too much caffeine, which I considered a personal tragedy.
She looked nervous.
Not scared of Vanessa.
Scared of wanting something from Vanessa.
That is worse.
“I keep asking myself why now,” she said.
I did not answer immediately. Sometimes telling your child the truth feels like handing them a brick and asking them to carry it forever.
Instead, I asked, “What do you want out of this?”
She stared at the floor.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
Long silence.
Then, very quietly, “I think I just want to hear her explain it once.”
That hurt.
Because part of Emma still believed abandonment might have an explanation large enough to make it stop hurting.
There isn’t one.
There never is.
I rubbed my hands together, feeling old scars across my knuckles.
“Kiddo,” I said, “one conversation is rarely just one conversation.”
She looked at me.
“You think she’s lying?”
“No. I think she believes whatever version of herself helps her sleep at night.”
Emma closed her eyes.
Later that evening, she helped me make frozen pizza because neither of us had the energy for real food. She laughed when I dropped shredded cheese on the floor.
“You’re hopeless.”
“I raised you alone. Show some respect.”
“You gave me cereal for dinner.”
“You loved cereal.”
“I was eight.”
For a few minutes, things felt normal.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown Arizona number.
I almost ignored it.
Should have.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice came through, irritated before I even spoke. “We’re attempting to reach Vanessa Holloway regarding a financial matter. Are you a relative?”
I looked at Emma.
Her face had already changed.
“No,” I said.