Chapter 15 - The Daughter I Thought I'd Never Have
Ava was nine when she asked whether she could stay with me for the summer.
Lauren had accepted a temporary work assignment requiring travel.
The boys preferred staying with my parents.
Ava wanted me.
“Why?”
She shrugged.
“Your house is quiet.”
Apparently tranquility was hereditary only through aunts.
She moved into the guest room.
Within forty-eight hours, it was no longer quiet.
Hair ties appeared everywhere.
Shoes migrated mysteriously.
The bathroom acquired twelve bottles whose purposes I couldn't identify.
And I loved it.
That frightened me.
Not because loving Ava was wrong.
Because it reopened a room inside me I had locked years earlier.
One night she found me looking at an old clinic document.
“Were you going to have a baby?”
I hesitated.
“I wanted one.”
“Why didn't you?”
Sometimes children deserve truth simplified, not falsified.
“My body had trouble getting pregnant.”
“Oh.”
She thought.
“Were you sad?”
“Very.”
She climbed beside me.
“Are you still sad?”
“Sometimes.”
She rested her head against my shoulder.
“You can borrow me.”
I laughed so hard I cried.
“I don't think your mother would approve of the word borrow.”
“Fine. Share.”
That night, after Ava went to bed, I allowed myself to imagine something I'd avoided.
Motherhood had been one dream.
But nurturing had never belonged exclusively to biology.
I had spent years believing one locked door meant the entire house was closed.
It wasn't.
Ava stayed all summer.
When Lauren returned, she teased me.
“You spoiled her.”
“I did not.”
“She now believes blueberries should always be organic.”
“That is basic civilization.”
Lauren laughed.
The ease of that moment startled us both.
We had become sisters again.
Different sisters.
Scarred sisters.
But real.
Later Lauren said, “I used to think you had everything.”
“I know.”
“I didn't realize you were lonely.”
“I didn't realize you were jealous.”
“We were idiots.”
“You slept with my husband.”
She winced.
“Okay. I was the bigger idiot.”
We laughed.
There were things only time could make possible.
Not erase.
Transform.
The Blue Door Fund expanded into three counties.
I hired a full-time director so I could reduce my involvement in daily operations.
My consulting company also grew.
For the first time since my twenties, I had more future than plans.
Then I met someone.
His name was Andrew.
He wasn't dramatic.
That was the first thing I liked.
We met at a nonprofit fundraiser.
He asked about my work.
He didn't interrupt.
He didn't attempt to impress me.
At the end of the evening, he asked whether I'd like coffee sometime.
I said no.
Then I drove home annoyed with myself.
Three days later, Rebecca called.
“You rejected Andrew?”
“How do you know Andrew?”
“Everyone knows Andrew.”
“That's ominous.”
“He's nice.”
“That's more ominous.”
Rebecca laughed.
I eventually agreed to coffee.
Then dinner.
Then another dinner.
Months passed.
Andrew learned about my history gradually.
When I told him about infertility, he didn't say everything happened for a reason.
Thank God.
He simply said, “That must have been painful.”
When I told him about Mark and Lauren, he was quiet.
Then asked, “What is your relationship with Lauren now?”
Not How could she?
Not Why did you forgive her?
He cared about who I was now.
That mattered.
A year after meeting him, Andrew stood beside me at the blue door.
“You know,” he said, “this color really follows you.”
I smiled.
“It does.”
“Bad thing?”
I looked through the window.
Lauren was arriving with the children.
Mom and Dad followed.
Ava ran toward us.
May you like
“No,” I said.
“Not anymore.”
