What a fucking idiot, I think to myself as I jump another red light. About the tenth one this morning. The early morning mist hangs heavy in the air, impeding my visibility but nonetheless, I’m driving like a mad man. I’m probably still over the legal limit and shouldn’t be driving at all but I simply HAVE TO GET THERE!
I just have to get home to Vicky. Today is going to be hard for both of us, well I say us; Vicky’s the one who’s really having to deal with it and I simply have to be there for her. I made a promise.
She’s been so brave handling this whole situation. Hiding her morning sickness from everyone at work. Keeping this secret just between us, even when we’ve been around Michelle and David. I’m not sure how she’s done it. How she managed to smile and keep up the façade when we went to see them the Sunday after we found out. Mellie came too and all day the girls just talked about Michelle’s pregnancy and life after the baby arriving. Michelle went on and on about how excited she is, how she can’t wait for everyone to meet the little person who’s inside her. My heart wanted to break in two, listening to Michelle talk animatedly about the impending arrival of the newest member of our family. Meanwhile, Vicky just smiled weakly and asked Michelle another baby related question. I had to walk away. It was either that, or punch something, I’m so fucking angry. Angry at the injustice we find ourselves in. Angry with myself that I’ve put Vicky in this god-awful situation.
She’s been so brave and strong. Much much stronger than I. I’ve not been able to look at her these past few weeks. The guilt of the situation eating me up inside, so I’ve given her as much space as I possibly can. I’ve purposefully left her alone, when I’ve been so desperate to reach out for her. To reconnect, to demonstrate how much I truly love her. But how could I? How could I expect her to return any affection, when it is my all-consuming passion for her that has got us pregnant in the first place. I couldn’t be more in love with Vicky than I am right now. She means everything to me, which is why “I’m such a fucking idiot?” I shout aloud again, drowning out the sound of the radio.
Of course, I’ve thought about us keeping the baby. How we might make it work. A baby of our own, created from a part of both of us could be amazing, but falling pregnant by accident was such a shock. A shock that neither of us were expecting or really able to deal with. At least I was unprepared to deal with it. Vicky’s career is so important to her. She’s so fiercely independent, how could I ask her to give up everything and just become a mum and a housewife? Ask her to give up all of her independence for me? My income, although steady at the moment, isn’t sufficient to support a family here in the UK. I’d have to go back to New Zealand, leave Vicky in the UK to raise the child until she would be able to get her residency and join me out there and there’s no way I would ever leave her to cope on her own. I wouldn’t do that to her. Not like my dad did to all of us. If only we could hit the pause button now and then press play again in two or three years’ time. Right now, we have no stability - I have no stability. The timing couldn’t be any worse.
I know I need to grow up. It’s days like today that remind me how much more mature Vicky is than I am. Honestly, she’s way ahead of me. I know they say girls mature faster than boys, but I can be such a big kid at times. Great when you want a goofball to lighten the mood, or to inject some fun into life, but hopeless when life throws you a big curveball. Vicky manages the curveballs with grace and dignity and this is one almighty curveball. I’m not sure how I would cope if I ever lost her. She would never have let herself get pissed last night, leave her phone charger behind and basically monumentally fuck up as I have. “What a bloody idiot” I say again.
I’m almost home. I reckon I’ll get there by 6am or just after. I know she’s going to be pissed at me. Flippin’ furious, I expect, and she has every right to be, but at least once I get home we can go together. Hand in hand on the way in and I can comfort her when it’s all over. I think I’ll take her away for a quick holiday in a couple of weeks’ time when she’s feeling better. Somewhere warm where we can just kick back, chill out and relax. Eat some fine food, drink some chilled wine and soak up the sun. Perhaps I’ll take her and show her the amazing hidden beaches I discovered on Milos, or perhaps we could rent a villa in the south of France. Total privacy and space to heal.
I screech around the corner of the one-way system that splits Stoke Newington High Street just as I see a bus disappear behind the shops, heading in the other direction. I park the car in the underground car park of our block of flats and take the stairs two at a time, before bursting through the front door of our home, throwing my keys into the bowl.
“Vicky. Vick-yyyy, I’m here, I’m so so sorry,” I shout as I run into the bedroom, the kitchen, then the bathroom.
“Fuck, fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I shout in frustration, running between the rooms in the flat. Why the hell isn’t she here? Where the hell is she? Maybe she’s just nipped downstairs to the dairy for a few supplies, I think. That seems the most logical explanation. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. I can feel myself becoming more and more angry that she hasn’t come back.
One, two, three, four, five missed calls… eight, nine, ten. My phone beeps incessantly as the screen lights up, showing the seemingly endless stream of missed calls and voicemails from last night, now that I’ve found my charger and given it some life. My stomach lurches as I realise how desperately she was trying to reach me.
Why didn’t I just say “No” when the boys offered, well I say offered, more like insisted I had another beer, and another and another after that? I cringe when I think back now. Soon after the beer, came the whiskeys, followed by more whiskey and then tequila shots. I lost track of time until I was completely wasted, crashed out on someone’s sofa.
I pick up the handset, my fingers trembling as I hit the button and listen to the waiting voicemails.
“Chris, where are you?”
Bee-eep.
“Chris, I thought you’d be home by now?”
Bee-eep.
“Chris, this is not on. You said you’d be home by now - call me.”
Bee-eep.
“Chris, I hope you’re OK. I’m really worried now. Please call me.”
Bee-eep.
“Chris, where the fuck are you?”
I feel the sting of tears in the corner of my eyes as her voice, wracked with fear and frustration, pleads for me to come home. Each message becoming more and more insistent, more and more desperate, eventually descending into frustration and then anger.
Her final message, I realise, must have been left only moments ago.
“I’m sorry Chris, I don’t know what’s happened, why you haven’t come home, or where the fuck you are, but if I’m going to get to the appointment by bus I have to leave now, so quite frankly, fuck you!”
Her words pierce my heart, the pain as real as if I’d been speared with a real metal arrowhead causing me to hyperventilate, my hands grasping my throat as I try and catch my breath. I know now she’s not just down the street grabbing some water and chocolate for later. She didn’t wait for me. She’s gone without me. I called home at 9pm last night to say that I was leaving at 10pm and I would be home a bit later than I’d originally planned but that I’d be home soon after. I couldn’t phone again as my phone went flat soon after that. But I said I would be home and now I am. I’m here but she went on without me.
A cold realisation creeps slowly over me that I’ve not just let her down by not coming home when I said I would, but I have no way of reaching her, or of even knowing where she’s headed. She’s got the address of the clinic.
Once we’d made the decision, I let her sort out all the details. Make the doctor’s appointments, research, and then attend the clinic. The only question I’d asked when she’d said she was going to have to get it done privately was, “How much?”
How could I have been so insensitive? Since that conversation I’ve basically checked out. To be honest I haven’t really wanted to know the details. I’ve not wanted to ask if she needed any help, assuming she was doing just fine on her own. Listening to her heart-wrenching messages now, I appreciate fully for the first time how much she really needed me - needs me - and I’m not there. I don’t know where she is or where she’s headed. I should know, and I don’t. I’m so ashamed.
I start ripping the flat apart looking for clues. Sifting through every pile of papers I can find. There must be a letter or some detail somewhere. I feel physically sick as I appreciate how alone she must be feeling. All alone, thinking something bad has happened to me or worse still, that I’ve abandoned her.
I wish I could send her a message telepathically. Send her the strength that I know she’ll be needing as she struggles to handle this horrible, horrible day.
“Hey, goose, I’m so, so sorry. I have no excuse. I’ve completely fucked up but I’m here for you now. Get in touch. Tell me where you are. I’ll come for you. I love you.”
What I really want to say is, don’t go through with it, Vicky. I love you. We’ll find a way to make it work. I don’t care how hard or difficult it will be. I was just scared when you told me. I didn’t know what to do, how to handle it, but I do now. I know I will love any child of ours as much as I love you. Stop - don’t go through with it. We’ll make it work.
I’m powerless. I feel angry and frustrated. The woman I love is trekking somewhere across the sprawling metropolis of this enormous city, about to abort my child and I don’t know where she is, I don’t know where she’s going, and I have no way of finding her. Why didn’t she leave me a note? She could have easily left me the details. Surely, she’d know I’d come for her. Maybe she intended to make me suffer too. I surely deserve it, but could she have done that intentionally? Would she really be that cruel? She must know that I don’t have the details and that when I finally arrived home, I’d be desperate to find her.
I flop onto the sofa, rubbing the sides of my head with the heel of my hands. Think damn it, think Chris, I say to myself.
Four hours later and I’ve still heard nothing. I’m like a caged animal, pacing helplessly back and forth. I have no option but to wait. I have to be here when she calls. I’ve searched the flat from top to bottom for any clues but found nothing. I’ve never felt more useless in my entire life.
How could I have let this happen? How could I have done this to her? Sweet, gorgeous Vicky. She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve what I’ve done to her. She doesn’t deserve me. My thoughts come thick and fast.
What if she doesn’t get in touch, what then? What if she never speaks to me ever again? What if she leaves me? Arrives home later and silently packs her bags in front of me and moves out immediately? I could hardly blame her. What I’ve put her through is unforgivable. But how would I cope if I ever lost her? She means everything to me.
I fall back against the back of the sofa, every part of my body tight and tense. I’m emotionally wrung out, hungover and out of options. I finally give in to the tears that now spill over and roll freely down my face. I’ve never been more frustrated and angry. Angry at myself first and foremost for messing up so badly. I’m cross with Vicky for not leaving me a note or any details. I’m frustrated that I have no way of reaching her and I’m ashamed at myself, so ashamed. She’s so amazing. I’m so lucky to have her, why can’t I be better, do better? Be the man she needs me to be?
I will never forgive myself for this. Never, for as long as I live. Never ever!
Just then, the shrill sound of the telephone ringing breaks the silence in the flat. I wipe my dripping nose with the back of my hand and dash for the landline in the hallway, picking it up quickly and almost shouting my greeting into the receiver, “Hello? Vicky?”
“Er, hi, Chris,” the voice at the other end is male, definitely not Vicky, and now sounding slightly confused. “No, it’s David,” he sounds giddy and joyful, the complete antithesis of how I feel. “I just wanted you and Vicky to be some of the first to know. Michelle had the baby this morning.”
I swallow hard, his words slapping me cruelly around my face. “That’s great news, David.” It takes all of my inner strength to remain composed before I can speak again. “How’s Michelle doing?”
“Both her and the baby are doing great. I know when you tell Vicky, she’ll want to know all of the details… so here goes. It’s a girl,” the delight in his voice obvious, “born at 9.03 this morning, weighing 7lbs 4ozs. No name yet. No complications in the labour which started late last night. Michelle was amazing, although she’s very tired now as I’m sure you can image. She’s absolutely gorgeous though, Chris. I can hardly believe it… I have a daughter. I’m a father!”
“That’s great news, David,” I reply, my back stiffening involuntarily. “I’m delighted for you. Please pass on my love to Michelle. Tell her I’m proud of her.” My words catching painfully in my throat at the enormous effort it takes to keep my voice level. “I know Vicky will be over the moon when I tell her,” I add.
“Yes, I’ll tell Michelle you’re asking after her. Is everything alright, Chris? You don’t sound like yourself,” he asks.
“Yes, yes everything’s fine, David,” I lie. “Let us know when you’re back home and open for visitors and we’ll pop round and meet the little nipper.”
“Will do.”
“Take care. Thanks for calling. And much love to all three of you,” I say finally, before hanging up.
My legs give way instantly, as I collapse backwards with a heavy thud, my body colliding with the hard surface behind me before my legs crumple completely from underneath me causing to slide down the back of the front door before I land with a clumsy thump on the floor. My head in my hands, it’s my turn to sob uncontrollably. I don’t recognise the sounds that escape from me. I sound like a wounded animal, shrieking in pain as all of the emotions I’ve struggled to compress all day erupt like a hot angry agonising volcano.
I’m all alone and the only person I want to be with has vanished. And it’s all because of me. This is my doing and I have no one to turn to and no one to blame but myself.
It was 5pm that day before the phone rang again. I hadn’t stopped wandering back and forth in the flat, unable to do anything but pace around like a caged animal, then sit and wait, before pacing around some more. My emotions rotating in a never-ending cycle. Anger, frustration, rage followed by despair.
In the end it wasn’t Vicky who called, but some friendly female nurse. It appears Vicky had at least put me down as her emergency contact on the consent form, for which I will always be eternally grateful.
“You’ll be pleased to know. Everything went absolutely fine,” the nurse had chirped. The irony of the nurse describing the desired outcome from Vicky’s surgery as a place labelled ‘absolutely fine’ not lost on me. “Because we ended up needing to give Victoria a full general anaesthetic, she’s still a bit groggy and she’ll need someone to come and collect her. She needs to go home with a responsible adult. We can’t send her home in a taxi on her own.”
On hearing she was OK, relief flooded through my veins like a warm hot toddy on a cold winter’s day, as silent thankful tears pooled in the corner of my eyes.
“Are you able to come and collect her?”
“Absolutely, I’ll come now,” I’d said, sniffing loudly and wiping away any emotional residue with the back of my hand.
“Great. She should be ready to leave from seven this evening. We’re just waiting for the doctor to do his final rounds so she can be signed off.”
Having made a note of the address, I’d grabbed my keys and bolted of out the door. I knew I was going to have to battle with the rush hour traffic to get there, but in that moment, I would have driven through hades to reach her.
When I’d arrived at the clinic, which was in the grounds of a large converted Victorian villa in Streatham, South London, I’d given my name to a receptionist and a nurse had come and collected me, walking with me into a large south-facing room on the first floor. The light from the last of the mid-summer day’s rays streaming into the room from the large bay window.
If I thought my heart was broken before I arrived knowing the anguish I’d put Vicky through last night and today, it broke all over again when I’d walked into the room. Lying on her side, motionless on a hospital bed, still in a hospital gown, her eyes bloated from crying. I’ve done this to her, was my first thought, how can I ever expect her to forgive me?
“Hey,” I’d said quietly approaching her gently. “I brought you these to cheer you up,” holding out a bunch of her favourite Calla Lilies that I’d grabbed on my way across town. She’d said nothing and simply rolled away from me to face the other way.
“I’ll leave you two alone so you can get Victoria’s things together,” the nurse had said diplomatically, closing the door behind her as she’d left.
As soon as we were alone, I’d rushed around to the other side of the bed, falling to my knees, reaching for Vicky’s hands, desperate to hold her, to have her skin touch mine.
“Oh, Vicky. I’m so so sorry. I know nothing I can say now will ever make this better. I’ve been such an idiot. I’ve let you down. I’m so sorry.”
She’d looked back at me with a vacant stare.
“If I could turn the clock back I would,” I’d continued, “but please forgive me. You have to forgive me, Vicky.” The desperation evident in my voice as I laid on my knees asking for her mercy, kissing her hands desperately trying any which way to connect with her. Her eyes remained dry as I’d wept big heavy wet tears of self-pity and regret.
After a long pause and in a monotone voice, all she’d said was, “Take me home.”
***
“Make sure you put a warm coat on,” I say as I wrap Vicky’s scarf snuggly around her neck, concerned that she’ll catch a chill if I don’t. “The sun maybe out, but there’s an autumn chill in the air today.” Vicky looks back at me, smiling weakly. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes and have lost their sparkle as she looks blankly at me from her beautiful face. “You look lovely,” I say, kissing the end of her nose before reaching for her hand and lead her out of our flat.
In a few hours from now, we will officially become the ‘Supporting Adults’ to Michelle and David’s baby girl. Preferring not to have their daughter christened in church, they’ve opted to bring together all their friends and family in a non-denominal naming ceremony which is being held at the historic Hotel Russell, just around the corner from their flat.
“It’s a way of officially welcoming her into the world and into our family, without choosing a religion for her,” Michelle had said when explaining her and David’s decision.
“Yes, we’d rather let her choose her own beliefs when she’s older,” David had added.
Jessica, as she’s been called, is three months old now and is growing into a proper little cherub. All soft curls, sweet baby smell, Disney-esque eyes and squishy puddings for arms and legs. She’s an absolute delight and squeals with laughter whenever she’s picked up or tickled.
Vicky is still very withdrawn and clearly mourning the loss of her own baby, but she absolutely dotes on little Jessica. The only time I’ve seen her smile in the past three months, is when she’s been looking after the baby. The rest of the time, she seems to be living on autopilot, simply going through the motions, having had all of the joy and life sucked out of her.
“My baby will never have a grave, Chris,” she says across to me, as we walk together through Abney Park cemetery to catch the bus into town from Church Street.
“I know,” I say sadly, holding her hand tightly.
“No one even knows she ever existed. Her name will never be on a headstone for people to ponder about her life or her story.”
“You don’t know it was a girl, sweetheart,” I say softly.
“I do, Chris,” she says sharply. Her eyes turning to glare at me, daring me to question her. “Mother’s intuition,” she says defiantly.
Fortunately, everybody else seems too busy with their own lives to have noticed the change in Vicky, and her persistent sadness and lack of enthusiasm for life. We’ve only seen Mellie a few times in the past few months and only when we’ve been together en masse visiting Michelle, David and baby Jess. Michelle is too busy being a new mum to worry about anything or anyone else other than herself.
Vicky is managing to get up and go to work as usual, so she is functioning. But there’s something more to her sadness than just our baby dying that day and I am worried. It’s been three months now and I can’t seem to reach her. To pull her out of her depression and back into life. I know she’s still in there, buried behind an impenetrable wall of steel. Whenever we’ve made love in the past few months, I’ve noticed that she may have been lost in the moment momentarily, but it feels like she’s lost in her own moment rather than connected together with me. It’s as if she’s willing to give up her body but is holding onto her heart.
Despite the awfulness of the situation, the impact really only hitting the both of us in the aftermath, neither Vicky nor I have told anyone. Our secret is still safe, and I only hope that in time my usual bubbly, vivacious Vicky will return, and we can move past this. All I can do is hold her when she cries. Rock her like the baby she’s lost and keep telling her how much I love her … and how very very sorry I am.
“Mum and Dad, please repeat after me,” the officiator of the naming ceremony addresses Michelle and David, who dutifully follow him in making their parental promises to their daughter.
“We promise to keep you and clothe you,
shelter and protect you.
To love and support you as long as you need,
to the best of our ability.”
We will surround you with love and affection.
Make as sure as we can that no harm comes to you
and throughout our lifetime,
always be there for you whenever you need us.”
They smile lovingly at each other after they finish speaking, as the baby reaches up to touch her mother’s face.
“David and Michelle have chosen three family members to be Supporting Adults to Jessica,” the officiator continues. “Supporting Adults are chosen by the parents to take a special interest in their child’s upbringing and personal development.”
Michelle walks in front of the officiator and passes Jess across to Vicky, who’s standing in between Mellie and I, as we face the 40 or so seated guests in the function room which is laid out for the ceremony. Both of their faces light up instantly when Jessica recognises Vicky’s warm smile, their bond obvious for everyone to see.
“Melanie, Christopher and Victoria, please repeat after me,” the officiator instructs us,
“We promise to support you in all that you do.
To inspire your imagination and help you fulfil your dreams.”
Vicky rocks and singsongs the Supporting Adult promise to a smiling and gurgling Jessica as the three of us continue.
“We promise to be an ear to listen,
a voice to advise
and a pair of arms that will always have a hug waiting when it’s needed
and sometimes when it’s not.”
The promises over, the officiator turns and addresses the full crowd. “As we draw this ceremony to a close I say to you, Jessica, may life’s richest joys and blessings be yours. May you grow in health and may it be your good fortune to live a positive and fulfilling life that brings joy to you and to the lives of those whose paths cross with yours.”
“On behalf of David and Michelle, I’d like to thank all of you for your attendance today and for your support to this family in the past, the present and now the future. And finally, Michelle has a poem she’d like to read out to everyone,” he finishes, as Michelle steps forward for the reading.
“A Mother’s Wish,” she begins,
“I hope my child looks back on today,
And sees a mother who had time to play.
There will be years for cleaning and cooking,
But children grow up when you’re not looking.
Tomorrow I’ll do all the chores you can mention,
But today, my baby needs time and attention.
So settle down cobwebs; dust go to sleep,
I’m cuddling my baby, and babies don’t keep.”
There isn’t a dry eye in the house when Michelle has finished the reading. I subtly reach my arm around Vicky’s waist and rub her back in support as I pray she was too wrapped up with bouncing and rocking Jessica to hear the poem, or to transpose any of its meaning. Once Michelle has finished, the officiator begins a round of applause signifying the end of the formal part of the ceremony.
Michelle and David disappear into the crowd, shaking hands, air kissing friends and relatives and thanking everyone for coming. Meanwhile in the corner of the room, Vicky continues to mother the baby. Rocking her, singing to her. Both of them lost in their own private little world. I stand quietly next to her, watching them interact and my heart bleeds.
I’ve stolen this future from Vicky. When I should have stepped up, been a man and been strong enough for both of us, I let my fear overtake me and I crumbled and ran away. Vicky didn’t have that choice. She had to stay strong. She had to find a way to deal with her emotions and her fear and to go through with the termination, abandoned and alone. Had I been stronger, this right here is what she should be looking forward to with her own child, but instead she’s become a surrogate to my sister’s baby.
“Would you like anything to drink?” I ask tentatively.
“Yes please, Chris, that would be lovely,” she replies, smiling warmly. Her energy seemingly buoyed whenever she’s holding Jess, “I’ll have a white wine spritzer please.”
“Coming right up,” I reply before heading off to the bar to order the drinks.
I return a few moments later but she’s no longer where I left her. Drinks in hand, my eyes scan the room looking for her, assuming she’s disappeared into the crowd with the baby. However, I can see that Michelle is once again holding Jessica, balancing her on her hip while she unconsciously sways as all new mothers do, from foot to foot, a glass of wine in her other hand, chatting to some of our cousins who have travelled down from Gloucester for the event. My eyes dart around the room from face to face, group to group but I can’t see Vicky anywhere. Where is she? Knowing how prone she’s been to erratic behaviour lately, I’m instantly worried. On more than one occasion when she’s gone missing, I’ve found her wandering through Abney Cemetery opposite our flat, touching the headstones, talking to the statues of angels, looking up to the heavens. I’ve not made any comment when I’ve found her in this state. I’ve simply hugged her gently, then led her back home.
From the other side of the room, I spot Mellie rushing towards me, concern plastered all over her face.
“Chris, come quickly,” she says in urgent but hushed tones.
“What is it?”
“It’s Vicky. Come. Follow me.”
I put the drinks down on the nearest surface and follow my sister out of the function room, through the ornate lobby and past the marble staircase. I can see she’s leading me towards the Ladies’ Powder Room, but before I have any chance to hesitate, thinking I shouldn’t enter this female sanctuary, Mellie grabs my hand and pulls me inside.
Sat on the plush carpet underneath the hand-dryer in a corner of the room, Vicky is hugging her knees and rocking incessantly. Her make-up streaked with tears, her shoulders heaving in big wretched uncontrollable sobs. The horrific sound that escapes her body the unmistakable sound of a grief-stricken mother who has lost a child.
“I found her like this, Chris,” Mellie says kneeling down next to Vicky, “but she can’t tell me what the matter is. I’ve never seen her so upset before.”
“Hey, Vicky,” she says softly placing her arm round Vicky’s shoulders. “What’s the matter, Chook? Why are you so upset? What’s happened? It’ll all be OK. Chris is here now.”
“It’s OK,” I say to my sister, “I’ve got her now,” kneeling down on Vicky’s other side.
“Shh, shh. There, there,” I say, gently pulling Vicky onto my lap so that I can hug her like a baby.
“It’s fine now, sis,” I say to Mellie. “Just make sure Michelle doesn’t come in here for the next ten minutes. I wouldn’t want her seeing Vicky like this – not until she’s had a chance to refix her make-up,” I offer as a way of buying us some time.
“OK, Chris. I’ll keep her tied up in conversation.”
Mellie stands back up and heads back out of the room, leaving Vicky and I on the floor together. Turning Vicky’s face towards me, I tenderly tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, like I’ve done a million times before.
“Come on, sweetheart. Time to dry your tears. Everything is going to be OK,” I say softly. “I know this is impossibly hard. I can’t even begin to imagine how hard it is for you. Tell me what I can do to make it better?”
Slowly, very slowly her sobs begin to subside. She raises her gaze to meet mine. I smile warmly at her, trying to give her as much love and support as I can through my eyes. After a long pause, her sobs still catching in her throat every time she tries to speak, she says finally,
“Take me home, Chris.”
“Of course. I’ll just tell Michelle and David that you’re not feeling well, and we need to leave now.”
“No Chris, I mean take me home-home. Back to New Zealand. I can’t do this anymore. It’s just too painful. I can’t be here. Every part of my life here is just a constant reminder and I can’t be around Jess. I love her, I think you know that.”
I nod my head in agreement.
“My heart fills with joy every time I hold her, I feel like I will explode with love, she’s all I can think about. When I’m not with her, I’m only thinking about the next time I will be with her. But my heart breaks in two all over again whenever I have to hand her back, and there are only so many nights of the week I can offer to babysit or drop in unexpectedly. I just can’t keep doing this. Keep torturing myself. I need to put as much distance as I can between her and us. I do know she’s not my child… but it feels like she belongs to me.”
“I understand,” I say quietly.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get past this, Chris,” she looks at me with sad eyes, “but if you and I have got any chance of rebuilding our lives, rebuilding our relationship, I think we need a fresh start.”
“I agree. A chance to start over,” I say. “God, I love you, Vicky,” I add hugging her as tight as I possibly can. “I can’t keep saying sorry but you do know how very sorry I am.”
“I know, Chris. You did mess up - big style. But what’s done is done and I can’t change the past,” she pauses as I hear her take a deep breath in. “I still haven’t forgiven you, not completely anyway… but there is a part of me, that I can’t deny still loves you.”
“Oh, Vicky,” I reply, my shoulders softening on hearing her words as I bury my head deep in the soft folds of her soft cashmere jumper. I now have a second chance to turn things around, to be the man she needs me to be. To step up like I should have done when she needed me to. Now I have that chance, now I have hope.