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The father trying to decide whether a mother’s regret was a bridge or a trap.
Finally, he said, “I’ll keep it. She won’t see it unless I decide it helps her.”
Rachel nodded.
“That’s fair.”
Fair.
Such a small word.
Such a heavy one.
The first unsupervised visit was on a Saturday in April.
Jackson barely slept the night before.
Neither did I.
He arrived at my house at eight in the morning with Emma, a backpack, two emergency snacks, a change of clothes, a written schedule, and the expression of a man sending his heart out into traffic.
“She’ll be fine,” I said.
He nodded too quickly.
“I know.”
“You don’t know.”
“No.”
“You’re doing it anyway.”
He looked at Emma.
She was trying to put sunglasses on her stuffed rabbit.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”
At ten, we met Rachel at the town library.
The children’s room had painted trees on the walls and tiny chairs shaped like animals.
Rachel was already there.
She had chosen a table in clear view of the front desk.
I noticed that.
So did Jackson.
She did not rush Emma.
She did not scoop her up.
She simply knelt and said, “Hi, sunshine.”
Emma smiled.