Like an idiot, I called Alden twice more after asking Nate to check on him. I even fell asleep with my phone clutched to my chest. When it rang in the middle of the night, hope soared in my heart thinking it was Alden. No such luck though—it was only Nate.

Which is an entirely different can of worms. It seems Alden has loose lips when intoxicated and some the things he said led Nate to bombard me with questions. Lots and lots of questions that I was in no way—even still—prepared to answer.

After a lot of deflecting and begging for a reprieve, Nate ended the call, leaving me to steep in my regret as I cried myself to sleep.

Dreams of Alden plagued me all night. Dreams of us as a family together. Nightmares of him taking Tatum from me. It made for a restless night, and it’s hitting me like a ton of bricks this morning. I fell asleep with my hair in a wet bun, and now it’s a rat’s nest on my head. My eyes are puffy and the tip of my nose is red from crying so much.

Hindsight really is a bitch. At the time, at seventeen, I adamantly believed I was doing the right thing—that I was protecting Alden. Down to my very marrow, I believed it. But, with time comes wisdom, and my God, it’s true that ignorance is bliss.

In the moment, Alden’s words stung last night. But in the harsh light of day, they ring true. I did rob him of time with his daughter. And more importantly, I kept Tatum from knowing the love of the amazing man that—albeit, unknowingly—helped create her.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but I am determined to make it right. Obviously, I can’t give him back the time he’s lost, or can I?

With that thought in mind, I fly out of my bed and into Tatum’s room. I drag the rocking chair over to her closet and climb onto it. Balancing precariously, I brace myself with one hand and feel around the high shelf until my fingertips brush against the thing I’m looking for. I shift my weight forward, causing the chair to recline, hoping it will give me that slight extra boost I need.

No luck.

Carefully I bring my other hand up, praying like hell for the chair not to move. With a surer grip, I slide the heavy book toward me. Victory is in my grasp when the edge of it meets the lip of the shelf. I slide it toward my chest and slowly lower myself down to my knees.

Over the years, I have obsessively chronicled every single one of Tatum’s firsts. From her first poop blow-out, to her first tooth, to her first epic meltdown. I know it’s not the same as being present, but maybe it will help all the same.

I dash back to my room and dial Alden. Straight to voicemail. I do as the robotic feminine voice instructs and leave a message after the beep. “H-hey Alden, it’s me. N-Natalie. Um. Please call me when you get a chance. Please?”

I hang up and toss my phone down onto my fluffy white duvet. God, could I have sounded any more idiotic? Yes, my brain answers. Yes, you could have.

Which I prove to myself a mere two hours later when I fire off two text messages to him—both of which go unanswered.

It’s around five o’clock when Mom drops Tatum off. Like usual after time with Nana and Popsie, my Tater Tot is on a serious sugar high. You’d think my mom, being a nurse, would keep her from consuming so many sweets, but she’s a total pushover for this little girl.

“Mama! Mama! Mama!” Tatum chants my name, bouncing like she’s on a pogo stick.

I gently place my hands on her tiny shoulders to stop her jumping. “Yes, baby?”

“Did Nana tell you about da muffings?”

“You mean muffins?” I ask. Tatum nods furiously. “Nope, will you tell me?”

“We’s made dem! But instead of booberries we used chocolate chips! And when Nana wasn’t looking, I sneaked in some chocolate syrup! They were so yummy!”

“Whoa! That’s a lot of chocolate, Tater Tot. Guess we better make a healthy dinner.”

“I help?”

“Yeah, baby. Mama would like that very much. Go wash your hands and we’ll get started.”

Tatum tears off down the hall while I set about gathering ingredients. By the time she enters the kitchen, I have the chicken defrosting and I’m chopping up some broccoli.

“What we making?” she asks.

“Chicken and broccoli alfredo.”

“Yum! I love dat!”

I move around her and get a pot of water going on the stove.

“Oh! I forgot to grab the butter. Will you get it, baby?”

She dashes over to the fridge and grabs a stick of butter—mind you, it’s one I intentionally moved to where she could reach it while she was washing her hands. She brings it to me with a wide grin on her face.

“Thanks!” I move her stool over so that it is in front of the stove. In one pot we have our noodles boiling and in another our butter melting. When the microwave dings, I grab the chicken and add it to the pan of sizzling olive oil. I don’t let Tatum up onto her stool to help until the chicken is finished—I would hate for the oil to pop her.

After I transfer the chicken to a plate, Tatum climbs up onto her stool. I slide the broccoli off of the cutting board and into the pan the chicken was in. Then I let her help me add a little chicken broth to it before covering it with a lid.

I also let her help me stir in the heavy cream for our sauce, as well as the parmesan cheese.

I once again have Tatum hop down from her stool so that I can safely drain the pasta. When I finish that, I turn off the burners and together we pour the noodles into the sauce and add the chicken and broccoli. “It smells good, Mama!”

“It does,” I agree, an idea sparking in my mind. “Hang on, okay? Don’t move!” I grab my phone up from the counter. “Okay, baby, give everything a good stir for Mama!” I snap a few shots of Tatum at the stove stirring our dinner and attach them to a text to Alden that reads She may not know you as her father, but she is so much like you. Can we please talk soon?