I know now that I was making her truth about my expectations.
Emily had trusted me enough to tell me who she was.
And instead of making her feel loved, I made her feel judged.
The conversation ended terribly.
After that, she stopped speaking to me.
I tried calling her twice during the following two years.
She didn’t answer.
Eventually, I convinced myself that giving her space was the respectful thing to do.
Standing in that maternity room, I realized how convenient that explanation had been.
David had known about the rupture from the beginning.
He had heard my regret.
He knew I had tried to apologize.
He also knew Emily wasn’t ready to hear it.
Then, eight months earlier, she had called him and told him about the baby.
“She asked me not to tell you,” David said quietly.
I stared at him.
“You visited her secretly for eight months?”
“Yes.”
“She was pregnant this entire time?”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing?”
He looked down.
“I should have told you.”
“Yes, David. You should have.”
“I didn’t know how.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I couldn’t tell you she was pregnant without telling you she was afraid of you knowing.”
The words hurt.
But I couldn’t argue with them.
He continued.
“She was scared you’d react the same way you did two years ago. She asked me to let her decide when she was ready.”
I looked at Emily.
She was staring at the baby.
“How old is she?”
“Three days.”
“A girl?”
Emily nodded.
“Her name is Rosalind.”
I repeated it quietly.
“Rosalind.”
“Mom suggested it.”
Patricia.
My sister.
My entire family had known this baby was coming.
Except me.
I looked at Rosalind.
