― Margaret Atwood
The worst lies involve self-deception—and the worst self-deception involves lies about love.
I think of Ally—our struggles and pain—and it grieves me.
I let her run away.
It was after we had Brynne and she told me she wasn’t sure the baby was mine.
I was angry—young and stupid. I let her walk out the door.
I ended up the loser—not because she left—but because I let her go—someone I really meant to keep.
When Ally died two months later in an auto accident, I became Brynne’s dad by default.
I nursed Brynne, loved her, raised her—and when I look at her now, I don’t want to know the truth.
I’m afraid to know if I’m her biological father, so I live in limbo.
I don’t want to look behind that door.
Am I a good dad or a bad dad? I don’t know—all I know is I’m her dad and struggling with the role.
And the truth is, I love her—and maybe that’s all I need to know.
“Have you heard from Brynne?”
Marnie sips her wine after dropping the question innocently in my lap—how do I answer it? It’d be easy, if I knew where I stood—but I don’t.
“I haven’t heard from her in a week.”
“Aren’t you worried, Matt?”
I shrug, as if I’m Super Dad and in control, which I’m not.
“She’ll email any day now.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me she doesn’t phone.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“Aw, c’mon, Matt—don’t go simple on me. An eighteen-year old, all by herself in B.C.? I’d be worried if I were her mom.”
I am worried, of course—I jetted out there last Christmas—despite my terror of flying.
She shakes her head. “I don’t get it—why doesn’t Brynne just give you a quick phone call to let you know she’s fine?”
“You know kids.”
“Actually, I don’t,” she smiles ruefully, as if she wished she did.
Marnie’s forty—same age as me—gorgeous and never been married.
She looks like the Kelly Garret version of Jacklyn Smith—you know, the fashion model posing as one of Charlie’s Angels?
Anyway, the more I think about it, I think my relationship with Marnie and Brynne kind of sums up my life—I never know where I stand and I’m too scared to find out.
I don’t want to lose either of them, so I don’t rock the boat—but even my patience is wearing thin.
It might be time to define my role—to draw the lines once and for all.
But I’m scared to death of losing again, so I’m hanging loose.
Subject to change.