PART 4 \u2014 THE SIX WEEKS I HAD LEFT
\nSix weeks.
\nThat was the number that stayed in my head after my wife hung up.
\nSix weeks until Christmas.
\nSix weeks until Lily might move to Texas with Aaron.
\nSix weeks until the purple backpack disappeared from the chair for good.
\nSix weeks until the bedroom at the end of the hall stopped being hers.
\nSix weeks.
\nI sat at my desk staring at my computer screen while numbers blurred together.
\nKevin leaned over the cubicle wall.
\n“You look terrible.”
\nI didn’t answer.
\n“Marriage?”
\nI shook my head.
\n“Something worse.”
\nHis expression changed.
\n“What happened?”
\n“Lily wants to move to Texas.”
\n“The kid?”
\n“Yeah.”
\n“With her dad?”
\nI nodded.<\/p>\n
Kevin was quiet for a moment.
\nThen he asked, “Are you going to fight it?”
\nThat question irritated me.
\n“What am I supposed to fight?”
\n“I don’t know. Her leaving?”
\n“She’s not my daughter.”
\nThe words came out automatically.
\nThe second I heard them, I hated them.
\nKevin heard it too.
\nHe slowly raised an eyebrow.
\nI rubbed my face.
\n“That’s not what I meant.”
\n“Sounded pretty familiar.”
\n“I know.”
\nI stood up and grabbed my coffee.
\n“The problem is I don’t get a vote.”
\n“Maybe that’s not the problem.”
\nI looked at him.
\n“What?”
\n“Maybe the problem is you finally want one.”
\nI didn’t answer.<\/p>\n
Because that was exactly it.
\nThree weeks earlier, I’d practically built my entire argument around the fact that Lily wasn’t mine.
\nNow the idea that I wasn’t entitled to an opinion about where she lived felt like someone had punched me in the chest.
\nConsequences are funny that way.
\nYou can spend years building a wall and then get angry when you discover you’re standing on the wrong side of it.
\nI left work early.
\nNot because anyone asked me to.
\nBecause I couldn’t sit there pretending spreadsheets mattered.
\nMy wife was still staying at her sister’s, so I drove there.
\nI didn’t go to the door.
\nI texted:
\nCan we talk?
\nShe replied ten minutes later.
\nAbout Lily?
\nYes.<\/p>\n
Come around back.
\nI found her sitting on the patio with the baby asleep in a portable bassinet beside her.
\nShe looked exhausted.
\nThere were dark circles under her eyes.
\nFor the first time, I wondered how much sleep she’d lost because of me.
\nI sat across from her.
\n“Is she serious?”
\n“About Texas?”
\n“Yes.”
\n“Very.”
\n“She’s nine.”
\n“Nine-year-olds can still have feelings.”
\n“I know.”
\nMy wife looked surprised.
\n“What?”
\n“Nothing.”
\n“No. Say it.”
\nShe shook her head.
\n“I’m still getting used to hearing you say ‘I know’ instead of arguing.”
\n“Don’t get used to it.”
\nFor half a second, she almost smiled.
\nThen it disappeared.
\nI asked, “Why does she want to go?”
\n“You know why.”
\n“Because of me?”
\n“You’re part of it.”
\n“What’s the rest?”
\nShe looked toward the house.
\n“Aaron asked her what she wanted.”
\n“And?”
\n“She said she feels like she has to start over somewhere.”
\n“Start over from what?”
\nMy wife stared at me.
\nI immediately regretted the question.
\n“Right.”<\/p>\n
She folded her arms.
\n“She said she doesn’t want to keep walking into our house wondering whether you wish she wasn’t there.”
\n“I don’t wish that.”
\n“I know that now.”
\n“Does she?”
\nMy wife didn’t answer.
\nThat hurt more than if she’d said no.
\nI looked down at my hands.
\n“Did she say anything else?”
\n“She thinks I’m staying married to you because of the baby.”
\n“Are you?”
\nMy wife looked at me.
\n“I don’t know.”
\nAt least she was honest.
\nI nodded.
\n“Fair.”
\n“She also thinks if she leaves, it’ll make things easier for us.”
\nI looked up.
\n“What?”
\n“She thinks she’s the problem.”
\n“She’s not.”
\n“I know.”
\n“No.”<\/p>\n
I leaned forward.
\n“She really thinks that?”
\n“Yes.”
\n“Why?”
\nMy wife stared at me like the answer should have been obvious.
\nThen she said, “Because adults keep having conversations about whether she’s worth the trouble.”
\nI felt sick.
\n“I never said that.”
\n“You didn’t have to.”
\nThere it was again.
\nThe sentence everybody kept teaching me.
\nChildren hear what you mean even when you think you’re being careful with the words.
\nI looked toward the house.
\n“Can I talk to her?”
\n“Not today.”
\n“Why?”
\n“Because she’s angry.”
\n“At me?”
\n“At everybody.”
\nI nodded.
\n“When?”
\n“When she wants to.”
\n“And if she never wants to?”
\n“Then you respect that.”
\nThat answer would have made me furious a month earlier.
\nNow I just said, “Okay.”
\nMy wife leaned back.
\n“Mark, don’t turn these six weeks into a campaign.”
\n“What?”
\n“Don’t buy her presents every day. Don’t suddenly become Super Stepfather. Don’t promise Disney World. Don’t make her responsible for rewarding your change.”
\n“I wasn’t going to.”
\nShe gave me a look.
\n“Okay. I thought about it.”
\nShe laughed despite herself.
\nA tiny laugh.
\nThen she covered her mouth.
\nThe baby stirred.
\nWe both looked at him.
\nFor a few seconds, it felt normal.
\nThen she said, “If you love her, let the next six weeks be about Lily.”
\nNot about saving the marriage.
\nNot about keeping her in the house.
\nNot about proving I wasn’t a bad person.
\nLily.
\nI understood.
\nOr at least I thought I did.
\nThe first week, I did almost nothing.
\nThat was harder than it sounds.
\nI wanted to fix everything immediately.
\nI wanted to show up with a new bicycle, new clothes, concert tickets, a puppy, a marching band, whatever would make a nine-year-old forget that I’d once looked her in the eye and told her her father could buy her dinner.
\nInstead, I went to her soccer game.
\nI stood behind the fence.
\nAaron was there.
\nMy wife was there.
\nLily saw me.
\nShe didn’t wave.
\nI didn’t force it.
\nAfter the game, I said, “Nice goal.”
\nShe said, “Thanks.”
\nThat was all.
\nI went home.
\nOn Wednesday, I attended her science fair.
\nHer volcano barely erupted.
\nRed foam dribbled down one side like the volcano had lost motivation halfway through.
\nLily looked devastated.
\nI stared at it.
\nThen said, “That’s the most realistic volcano here.”
\nShe frowned.
\n“Why?”
\n“Most volcanoes aren’t erupting every five minutes.”
\nShe stared at me.
\nThen laughed once.
\nA tiny sound.
\nI’ll tell you something embarrassing.
\nThat laugh felt better than any promotion I’d ever gotten.
\nI didn’t tell her that.
\nI just helped wipe baking soda off the table.
\nThe second week, Lily came to the house with my wife to pick up some winter clothes.
\nI stayed downstairs.
\nI heard her moving around in her bedroom.
\nDrawers opening.
\nCloset door sliding.
\nThen silence.
\nA few minutes later, she came downstairs holding a framed photograph.
\nIt was from a beach trip the year before.
\nMy wife.
\nMe.
\nLily.
\nThe baby wasn’t born yet.
\nLily was sitting on my shoulders.
\nWe were both laughing.
\nShe held it out.
\n“Do you want this?”
\nI looked at the picture.
\n“Why would I want it?”
\n“You paid for the frame.”
\nI almost laughed.
\nThat was exactly the kind of accounting language I’d taught her.
\n“No.”
\nI shook my head.
\n“It’s yours.”
\n“I don’t know if I want to bring it to Texas.”
\nI swallowed.
\n“You don’t have to.”
\nShe started to put it in a box marked LEAVE.
\nI stopped her.
\n“Lily.”
\nShe looked up.
\n“Can I tell you something?”
\nShe waited.
\n“I want the picture.”
\nHer expression changed.
\n“Why?”
\n“Because you’re in it.”
\nShe stared at me.
\nI could tell she was deciding whether I meant it.
\nThen she handed me the frame.
\nI put it on the kitchen counter.
\nThe same kitchen counter where the pizza form had sat.
\nThe same kitchen counter where her mother had cooked those eggs.
\nThat night, I moved the photograph to the living room shelf.
\nI didn’t hide it in a drawer.
\nThe third week, I had dinner with my mother.
\nShe served meatloaf.
\nDad’s favorite.
\nHalfway through, she asked, “How’s Lily?”
\n“Still going.”
\n“You sound surprised.”
\n“I keep thinking she’ll change her mind.”
\n“Maybe she won’t.”
\n“I know.”
\n“You really hate hearing that, don’t you?”
\n“Yes.”
\nShe smiled.
\nThen I asked something I’d been thinking about for days.
\n“Did Dad ever resent me?”
\nMy mother stopped eating.
\n“What?”
\n“You said he worried about money.”
\n“Yes.”
\n“Did he ever resent paying for me?”
\nShe considered the question.
\n“Probably sometimes.”
\nThat surprised me.
\n“You think?”
\n“Mark, love doesn’t make people stop being human.”
\nI waited.
\n“Your father got tired. He got stressed. Sometimes he complained about money.”
\n“So he did resent it.”
\n“No.”
\nShe put down her fork.
\n“There’s a difference between resenting the cost of something and resenting the person.”
\nI thought about that.
\n“He once complained for an entire week about the price of your braces.”
\nI smiled.
\n“Sounds like Dad.”
\n“He called the orthodontist a highway robber.”
\nI laughed.
\n“Also sounds like Dad.”
\n“But he never came home, put food on the table for me and himself, then told you to call Daniel if you wanted dinner.”
\nThe laughter disappeared.
\n“I know.”
\nMy mother reached across the table.
\n“Stop trying to turn him into a saint so you can turn yourself into a monster.”
\nI looked at her.
\n“That’s not useful either.”
\n“What do you mean?”
\n“Robert wasn’t perfect. You’re not permanently ruined.”
\nShe squeezed my hand.
\n“You’re responsible for what you did. You’re also responsible for what you do next.”
\nThat became the sentence I carried through the fourth week.
\nWhat do you do next?
\nNot what do you say next.
\nNot what do you buy next.
\nWhat do you do?
\nI started noticing things.
\nLily hated the crust on sandwiches.
\nShe liked strawberry yogurt but not strawberry milk.
\nShe needed new black shoes for her school concert.
\nHer backpack zipper was broken.
\nHer bedroom lamp flickered.
\nTiny things.
\nFor two years, I’d lived in the same house and barely noticed.
\nOne Saturday, my wife brought Lily and the baby over.
\nShe needed to run errands.
\n“Can they stay here for two hours?”
\nI tried not to look too eager.
\n“Sure.”
\nLily stood in the doorway.
\n“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want,” I told her.
\nShe glanced at her mother.
\n“It’s okay.”
\nMy wife left.
\nFor the first twenty minutes, Lily sat on the couch with her tablet.
\nI sat on the opposite end pretending to watch football.
\nThe baby played on the floor.
\nThen Lily asked, “Is there anything to eat?”
\nI froze.
\nShe froze too.
\nWe both knew.
\nThe question hung there.
\nIs there anything to eat?
\nI stood.
\n“Yeah.”
\nI opened the refrigerator.
\nToo much food.
\nI had been overcompensating at the grocery store.
\n“What do you want?”
\n“I don’t know.”
\n“Sandwich?”
\n“No.”
\n“Eggs?”
\nShe looked at me.
\nI immediately regretted saying it.
\nThen something amazing happened.
\nShe smiled.
\n“Very funny.”
\n“I wasn’t trying to\u2014”
\n“I know.”
\nShe laughed.
\nI laughed too.
\n“Pizza?”
\n“Okay.”
\nI picked up my phone.
\n“What kind?”
\n“Cheese.”
\n“Anything else?”
\n“Breadsticks.”
\n“Done.”
\nI ordered.
\nThen she asked, “Are you eating?”
\n“Yeah.”
\n“What are you getting?”
\n“Pepperoni.”
\nShe thought for a second.
\n“Mom likes mushrooms.”
\n“She’s not here.”
\n“I know.”
\nI looked at her.
\n“You’re thinking we should save her some?”
\nShe nodded.
\nI added a mushroom pizza.
\nThree pizzas for three people who could barely finish one.
\nDad would have had a heart attack over the waste.
\nBut I didn’t care.
\nWhen the food arrived, Lily came to the table.
\nI put a cheese pizza in front of her.
\nPepperoni in front of me.
\nThe baby got mashed banana.
\nAnd I put the mushroom pizza aside for my wife.
\nFour people.
\nFour meals.
\nThat thought hit me.
\nI almost cried again.
\nI was becoming ridiculous.
\nLily noticed.
\n“Are you doing the weird eye thing?”
\n“What weird eye thing?”
\n“Where you look like you’re going to cry.”
\n“No.”
\n“You are.”
\n“Eat your pizza.”
\nShe smiled.
\nAfter lunch, she asked, “Can I ask you something?”
\n“Sure.”
\n“Would you be mad if I go to Texas?”
\nThe question knocked the air out of me.
\nI put down my slice.
\n“No.”
\nHer eyes narrowed.
\n“Really?”
\n“I’d be sad.”
\n“That’s different.”
\n“Very.”
\n“Would Mom be mad?”
\n“No.”
\n“Dad?”
\n“He’d probably be happy.”
\nShe rolled her eyes.
\n“You know what I mean.”
\nI did.
\nI looked at her.
\n“I think everybody is trying very hard not to make you responsible for their feelings.”
\n“That’s annoying.”
\nI laughed.
\n“Probably.”
\n“I don’t know what I want.”
\n“You don’t have to know today.”
\n“Everyone keeps asking.”
\n“Then tell them to stop.”
\nShe stared at me.
\n“Even you?”
\n“Especially me.”
\nShe looked down at her pizza.
\n“I think Texas could be fun.”
\n“Probably.”
\n“Dad said I could have my own room.”
\n“Good.”
\n“And there’s a pool.”
\n“That sounds terrible.”
\nShe smiled.
\n“And he said I can get a dog.”
\n“Now he’s cheating.”
\nShe laughed.
\nThen her face changed.
\n“But Mom would be here.”
\n“Yeah.”
\n“And the baby.”
\n“Yeah.”
\n“And Grandma.”
\n“Yeah.”
\nShe glanced at me.
\nThen looked away.
\nI didn’t fill in my own name.
\nI wanted her to.
\nShe didn’t.
\nThat hurt.
\nBut I let it.
\nA few minutes later, she whispered, “And you.”
\nI looked at her.
\nShe kept staring at her plate.
\nI said, “Yeah.”
\n“Would you visit?”
\n“If your parents were okay with it.”
\n“You’d go all the way to Texas?”
\n“Yeah.”
\n“Why?”
\nI almost said because you’re family.
\nIt felt too big.
\nToo convenient.
\nInstead I said, “Because I’d miss you.”
\nShe looked at me.
\nThen she took another bite.
\nNothing else.
\nBut that evening, when my wife came to pick them up, Lily hugged me.
\nIt lasted maybe one second.
\nMaybe less.
\nShe probably didn’t even think about it.
\nI did.
\nFor the rest of the night.
\nWeek five arrived.
\nChristmas decorations appeared everywhere.
\nMy house stayed undecorated.
\nI couldn’t bring myself to get the boxes from the attic.
\nChristmas had always been Dad’s holiday.
\nHe used to put lights on everything.
\nRoof.
\nBushes.
\nMailbox.
\nOne year he wrapped lights around Mom’s garden rake as a joke.
\nShe left it like that until February.
\nLily loved decorating too.
\nOr she had.
\nOne evening, I came home and saw a cardboard box on my porch.
\nMy wife had dropped off some of my things from her sister’s.
\nInside were clothes, mail, and the Christmas ornaments Lily had made at school.
\nA paper snowman.
\nA popsicle-stick tree.
\nA ceramic star with her handprint.
\nI held that stupid little star and realized that if she moved, maybe there wouldn’t be another one next year.
\nNo fourth-grade ornament.
\nNo fifth-grade school picture.
\nNo backpack on the chair.
\nNo soccer cleats by the door.
\nI sat on the porch until it got dark.
\nThen my phone rang.
\nAaron.
\nWe didn’t call each other.
\nEver.
\nI answered.
\n“What?”
\n“We need to talk.”
\n“Again?”
\n“Yeah.”
\n“About Lily?”
\n“Obviously.”
\n“Okay.”
\n“Can you meet me?”
\n“Where?”
\nHe named a diner halfway between our houses.
\nTwenty minutes later, we were sitting across from each other in a booth.
\nNo Lily.
\nNo wife.
\nNo mothers.
\nJust two men who had spent years quietly measuring themselves against each other.
\nAaron ordered coffee.
\nI didn’t.
\nHe said, “She told me she doesn’t know if she wants to move anymore.”
\nI felt hope so quickly it embarrassed me.
\nI tried to hide it.
\n“Okay.”
\n“You knew?”
\n“No.”
\n“She said something changed.”
\nI didn’t answer.
\nAaron watched me.
\n“Was it you?”
\n“I don’t know.”
\n“Mark.”
\n“I really don’t know.”
\nHe rubbed his hands together.
\n“I accepted the job.”
\n“I know.”
\n“They gave me until Monday to finalize relocation paperwork.”
\n“Okay.”
\n“I need to know what to do.”
\nI stared at him.
\n“Why are you asking me?”
\n“Because this isn’t about you and me anymore.”
\n“It never should have been.”
\nHe nodded.
\n“Agreed.”
\nFor once, there was no fight in him.
\nHe looked tired.
\n“I want her with me.”
\n“I know.”
\n“I’ve missed a lot.”
\nI didn’t expect him to say that.
\nHe continued.
\n“Travel. Work. Projects. Every time I told myself I was doing it for her.”
\nI thought about mortgages and bills.
\nProvider.
\nThe word could hide a lot.
\nAaron said, “I thought if I paid what I owed and showed up when I could, that was enough.”
\nI almost smiled.
\n“What?”
\nHe frowned.
\n“Nothing.”
\n“No. Say it.”
\n“You sound like me.”
\nHe laughed bitterly.
\n“That’s horrifying.”
\n“Tell me about it.”
\nWe both laughed.
\nThe waitress looked over.
\nAaron became serious again.
\n“I don’t want to take her away from her mother.”
\n“Then don’t.”
\n“It’s not that simple.”
\n“Why?”
\n“Because I also don’t want to keep being the dad who’s somewhere else.”
\nI understood that more than I wanted to.
\n“What does Lily want?”
\n“That’s the problem.”
\n“What?”
\n“She keeps trying to choose whatever makes everybody else happiest.”
\nI looked down.
\n“That’s what kids do when adults make them think they’re the problem.”
\nAaron nodded.
\n“Exactly.”
\nWe sat there in silence.
\nThen he said something I never expected.
\n“She talks about you.”
\nI looked up.
\n“Still?”
\n“All the time.”
\n“What does she say?”
\n“That you’re trying.”
\nI felt my throat tighten.
\n“She said you came to science fair.”
\n“Yeah.”
\n“Soccer.”
\n“Yeah.”
\n“Pizza lunch.”
\nI smiled.
\n“She told you that?”
\n“Apparently you ordered enough food for an entire construction crew.”
\n“Accurate.”
\nHe smiled.
\nThen he looked at me.
\n“She still calls you ‘my Mark.'”
\nThat nearly undid me.
\nI stared at the table.
\nAaron said, “I used to hate it.”
\n“What?”
\n“When she started saying that.”
\n“Why?”
\n“Because I thought you were replacing me.”
\nI looked at him.
\n“Seriously?”
\n“Yeah.”
\n“That’s what I was afraid of.”
\nHe laughed.
\n“We really are idiots.”
\n“Apparently.”
\nThen he leaned back.
\n“Here’s what I think.”
\n“What?”
\n“I think we’re both so busy deciding what title belongs to which man that Lily is just trying to figure out whether both men are going to show up.”
\nThat sounded like something Dad would have said.
\nMaybe something Lily would say.
\nI nodded.
\nAaron continued.
\n“I don’t want her making a permanent decision because of one terrible month.”
\n“Neither do I.”
\n“So I told her she doesn’t have to decide before Christmas.”
\n“What does that mean?”
\n“She can stay here through the school year.”
\nI stared at him.
\n“And Texas?”
\n“I’ll take the job.”
\n“Without her?”
\n“For now.”
\n“You’re okay with that?”
\n“No.”
\nAt least he was honest.
\n“But I’ll come back twice a month.”
\n“That’s expensive.”
\nHe shrugged.
\n“She’s my daughter.”
\nI nearly laughed at the irony.
\nThis time, those words didn’t bother me.
\nThey sounded right.
\nHe was her father.
\nAnd I didn’t need him to be anything less for me to become something more.
\nI held out my hand.
\nAaron stared at it.
\n“What is this?”
\n“Don’t make it weird.”
\nHe shook my hand.
\nThe first time in two years.
\nThen he said, “We’re not friends.”
\n“Absolutely not.”
\n“Good.”
\nWeek six.
\nThe week before Christmas.
\nMy wife finally agreed to come home for one evening so we could decorate the tree together.
\nNot move home.
\nNot reconcile.
\nOne evening.
\nI bought a tree too large for the living room.
\nLily said so immediately.
\n“You got the wrong size.”
\n“I know.”
\n“It touches the ceiling.”
\n“I know.”
\n“Mom’s going to be mad.”
\n“I know.”
\n“Why did you buy it?”
\n“It looked smaller outside.”
\nShe laughed.
\nWe decorated.
\nThe baby tried to eat tinsel.
\nMy wife yelled at me for putting breakable ornaments too low.
\nLily played Christmas music.
\nFor three hours, we were almost a family again.
\nThen Lily found Dad’s old ornament.
\nA wooden train with ROBERT painted across the side.
\nShe held it up.
\n“Who’s Robert?”
\n“My dad.”
\n“The one who wasn’t your dad?”
\nMy wife looked at me nervously.
\nI smiled.
\n“The one who was absolutely my dad.”
\nLily nodded.
\n“Can I put it on?”
\n“Yeah.”
\nShe hung it near the middle of the tree.
\nThen she said, “You should have an ornament.”
\n“I have plenty.”
\n“No.”
\nShe pointed at the train.
\n“One with your name.”
\n“Why?”
\n“So when I’m old, I can tell people who you were.”
\nThe room went silent.
\nLily didn’t notice.
\nShe was already digging through another box.
\nMy wife looked at me.
\nMy eyes filled.
\nShe whispered, “Don’t.”
\n“I know.”
\n“She’s going to make fun of you.”
\n“I KNOW.”
\nLily turned.
\n“Are you crying again?”
\n“No.”
\n“Mom, he’s doing it.”
\nMy wife laughed.
\nFor the first time in months, she laughed without sadness underneath it.
\nChristmas Eve came.
\nMy wife agreed to have dinner at the house.
\nAaron was leaving for Texas two days after Christmas, so I invited him.
\nThat surprised everyone.
\nMy mother came too.
\nFive adults if you counted me, four if you counted people Lily actually trusted.
\nI cooked.
\nActually cooked.
\nHam.
\nPotatoes.
\nGreen beans.
\nRolls.
\nMacaroni because Lily hated green beans.
\nMy mother brought pie.
\nAaron brought wine for the adults and sparkling cider for Lily.
\nMy wife brought nothing.
\nShe said she’d spent two years cooking and I could survive one night.
\nFair.
\nI set the table.
\nSix places.
\nOne high chair.
\nThen I stopped.
\nLooked again.
\nSomething bothered me.
\nSix plates.
\nMy mother.
\nAaron.
\nMy wife.
\nLily.
\nMe.
\nBaby.
\nCorrect.
\nBut I remembered the first night.
\nTwo burgers.
\nMine.
\nMy wife’s.
\nNothing for Lily.
\nI went to the cupboard and took out another plate.
\nMy wife walked in.
\n“What are you doing?”
\n“Nothing.”
\n“Why are there seven plates?”
\nI looked at the extra one.
\nThen I laughed.
\n“I don’t know.”
\n“You forgot how many people are here?”
\n“Apparently.”
\nLily came in.
\n“Who’s the extra plate for?”
\nI started to remove it.
\nThen my mother said from behind us:
\n“Leave it.”
\nWe all turned.
\n“Why?”
\nShe looked at the plate.
\n“For Robert.”
\nMy throat closed.
\n“Mom.”
\n“He’d like that.”
\nI couldn’t speak.
\nLily immediately said, “Okay.”
\nShe put Dad’s old watch beside the empty plate.
\nI stared at it.
\nNobody made fun of me when I cried that time.
\nWe ate.
\nAaron told stories about Lily when she was little.
\nMy mother told embarrassing stories about me.
\nLily loved those.
\nEspecially the one about me crying because a goose chased me when I was eight.
\n“It was huge.”
\n“It was a normal goose,” my mother said.
\n“It had murder in its eyes.”
\nLily laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink.
\nAfter dinner, we opened a few presents.
\nMy wife gave me a sweater.
\nMom gave me tools.
\nAaron gave me nothing.
\nPerfect.
\nThen Lily disappeared upstairs.
\nA few minutes later, she returned holding a small package wrapped in newspaper.
\n“This is for Mark.”
\nEverybody got quiet.
\n“Why newspaper?”
\n“I ran out of wrapping paper.”
\n“Efficient.”
\nI took it.
\nIt weighed almost nothing.
\nI opened it carefully.
\nInside was a small silver keychain.
\nCheap.
\nProbably from her school’s holiday shop.
\nFour words were stamped into it.
\nBEST DAD EVER.
\nThe room went completely silent.
\nLily immediately panicked.
\n“They didn’t have stepdad.”
\nI stared at it.
\n“So I didn’t know what else to get, and I asked the lady, and she said maybe you could still use it, but you don’t have to because Dad is Dad and you’re not Dad-Dad, you’re…”
\nShe stopped.
\nAaron was watching.
\nMy wife had tears running down her face.
\nI looked at Lily.
\n“What am I?”
\nShe shrugged.
\n“My Mark.”
\nThat did it.
\nI covered my eyes.
\nLily groaned.
\n“He’s crying.”
\nMy mother said, “Get used to it.”
\n“I’m not crying.”
\n“You absolutely are,” Aaron said.
\n“Nobody asked you.”
\nLily laughed.
\nI wiped my face.
\nThen I looked at the keychain again.
\n“Can I keep it?”
\nShe frowned.
\n“That’s why I gave it to you.”
\n“I know. I just…”
\nI swallowed.
\n“I want to make sure.”
\nShe nodded.
\n“It’s yours.”
\nI attached it to my house keys right there.
\nThen Lily sat beside me.
\nFor a while, nobody said anything.
\nFinally, she whispered, “I’m not moving to Texas.”
\nI looked at her.
\nAaron’s expression didn’t change.
\nHe already knew.
\nMy wife covered her mouth.
\n“What?”
\nLily looked around the table.
\n“I’m staying.”
\nMy wife immediately hugged her.
\nAaron looked down.
\nI could see the pain on his face.
\nSo could Lily.
\nShe pulled away from her mother.
\n“Dad.”
\nHe looked at her.
\n“I’m still coming.”
\n“I know.”
\n“Summer.”
\n“I know.”
\n“Christmas.”
\n“I know.”
\n“And you said every other weekend when you can.”
\n“I know.”
\nShe climbed into his arms.
\n“I’m not choosing Mark instead of you.”
\nAaron closed his eyes.
\n“I know, sweetheart.”
\n“I’m choosing here.”
\nHe held her tighter.
\n“I know.”
\nI looked away.
\nBecause that moment belonged to them.
\nNot me.
\nThat was another thing I’d learned.
\nNot every moment involving Lily had to include me.
\nLater that night, after everyone left except my wife and children, I started washing dishes.
\nMy wife came into the kitchen.
\nShe leaned against the counter.
\n“She’s staying.”
\n“Yeah.”
\n“You happy?”
\n“Very.”
\n“You didn’t tell her to?”
\n“No.”
\n“I know.”
\nI turned.
\n“You know?”
\n“She told me.”
\n“What?”
\n“She said the reason she decided to stay was because you told her you’d visit Texas if she left.”
\nI stared at my wife.
\n“That doesn’t make sense.”
\n“It does to her.”
\n“How?”
\n“Because she realized you weren’t being kind just to make her stay.”
\nI looked toward the living room.
\nLily was asleep on the couch.
\nMy wife continued.
\n“She said she finally believed you meant it.”
\nI looked down.
\n“That’s good.”
\n“It is.”
\nWe stood there.
\nThen I asked, “What about you?”
\n“What about me?”
\n“Are you staying?”
\nHer expression changed.
\nThe question I had been afraid to ask for six weeks.
\nShe looked toward the suitcases.
\nThey were still at her sister’s.
\nThe divorce papers still existed.
\nOne good Christmas didn’t erase anything.
\nShe said, “I don’t know.”
\nIt hurt.
\nBut this time I didn’t argue.
\nI nodded.
\n“Okay.”
\nShe studied me.
\n“That’s it?”
\n“What am I supposed to say?”
\n“The old Mark would give me fourteen reasons I was being unreasonable.”
\n“The old Mark was exhausting.”
\nShe laughed.
\n“Yes.”
\nI smiled.
\nThen she became serious.
\n“I need time.”
\n“Take it.”
\n“And counseling.”
\n“Okay.”
\n“And I need to know this isn’t temporary.”
\n“I know.”
\nShe looked at me.
\nThen she said:
\n“I’m going to come home.”
\nI froze.
\n“What?”
\n“Not because everything is fixed.”
\n“I know.”
\n“Stop saying that.”
\n“Sorry.”
\nShe smiled through tears.
\n“I’m coming home because I want to see if we can fix it.”
\nI didn’t hug her immediately.
\nThat might sound strange.
\nI wanted to.
\nBut I waited.
\nShe stepped toward me first.
\nThen I held her.
\nAnd for the first time since the night of the burgers, I allowed myself to believe our family might survive.
\nBut surviving wasn’t the ending.
\nNot even close.
\nBecause the real ending came one year later.
\nPART 5 \u2014 FOUR PLATES, ALWAYS
\nA year changes things.
\nNot everything.
\nBut enough.
\nAaron moved to Texas.
\nHe hated the flights.
\nLily hated the flights.
\nAirlines probably loved both of them.
\nHe returned twice a month whenever work allowed.
\nLily spent most of the summer with him.
\nHe came back for school events when he could.
\nI drove her to the airport sometimes.
\nThe first time, I stood beside Aaron at security.
\nHe looked at me.
\n“This still feels weird.”
\n“What?”
\n“Trusting you with her.”
\n“Trust me. Being trusted by you feels equally terrible.”
\nHe laughed.
\nThen he shook my hand.
\nWe still weren’t friends.
\nMostly.
\nMy wife moved back home on January 3.
\nShe remembered the date because she said if I ever became unbearable again, she wanted to know exactly how long the second attempt lasted.
\nWe went to counseling every Thursday for eight months.
\nI hated the first three months.
\nApparently counseling involves people asking questions and then expecting you to answer instead of explaining why the question is unfair.
\nTerrible system.
\nBut it worked.
\nSlowly.
\nI stopped introducing Lily as “my wife’s daughter.”
\nThe first time I accidentally said “our daughter,” I corrected myself.
\nLily corrected me back.
\n“No. That’s okay.”
\nSo I stopped correcting it.
\nShe still called Aaron Dad.
\nAlways.
\nSometimes she’d call me Mark.
\nSometimes My Mark.
\nOnce, when she was half asleep after a soccer tournament, she called me Dad.
\nThen she woke up enough to realize it.
\nHer eyes went wide.
\n“Sorry.”
\nI didn’t make it a big deal.
\n“Why?”
\nShe shrugged.
\n“Wrong person.”
\nI smiled.
\n“Still answered.”
\nShe rolled her eyes.
\nThat was enough.
\nI never asked her to call me Dad.
\nI never wanted her to feel like loving me required betraying Aaron.
\nThat was another mistake adults make.
\nWe think children’s hearts work like houses with one bedroom.
\nOne person moves in, somebody else has to move out.
\nThey don’t.
\nThere was room.
\nThere had always been room.
\nI just hadn’t understood that.
\nBy spring, the house sounded alive again.
\nShoes by the door.
\nBaby toys everywhere.
\nLily complaining about homework.
\nMy wife yelling from upstairs that nobody ever replaced the toilet paper.
\nI loved every irritating second.
\nEspecially the clutter.
\nSometimes I’d come home and just stand in the kitchen listening.
\nFor two years, I’d believed paying for the house made it mine.
\nThen the house became empty.
\nThat’s when I learned the mortgage buys walls.
\nPeople make a home.
\nIn March, Lily turned ten.
\nI attended her birthday dinner.
\nEarly.
\nVery early.
\nMy wife said I was embarrassing.
\nI didn’t care.
\nI bought Lily a camera because she’d gotten interested in photography.
\nNot because I needed to prove anything.
\nBecause I’d listened when she talked.
\nThere is a difference.
\nWhen she opened it, she gasped.
\n“How did you know?”
\n“You mentioned it approximately four hundred times.”
\nShe hugged me.
\nAaron had mailed her a better camera.
\nOf course he had.
\nI called him that night.
\n“You couldn’t let me have one win?”
\nHe laughed for a solid minute.
\nIn May, Lily had another soccer tournament.
\nMy wife couldn’t attend because the baby had a fever.
\nAaron’s flight was canceled.
\nSo it was me.
\nJust me.
\nI sat through four hours of games.
\nRain.
\nWind.
\nTerrible coffee.
\nLily’s team lost the final.
\nShe came off the field crying.
\nI expected her to go to her coach.
\nInstead she walked straight toward me.
\nI opened my arms.
\nShe buried her face in my jacket.
\n“They cheated.”
\n“I’m sure.”
\n“The referee was blind.”
\n“Completely.”
\n“That girl pushed me.”
\n“I saw.”
\n“You saw?”
\n“Every minute.”
\nShe stopped crying.
\nLooked up.
\n“You watched the whole game?”
\n“Yeah.”
\n“Even the boring part?”
\n“Especially the boring part.”
\nShe hugged me again.
\nThat’s when I realized something.
\nParenting isn’t built in the big moments.
\nNot mostly.
\nIt’s the boring parts.
\nThe four-hour tournaments.
\nThe school forms.
\nThe ride home.
\nWaiting outside dance class.
\nRemembering which cereal.
\nBuying the right size shoes.
\nListening to the same story about some kid named Madison for twenty minutes even though you still aren’t entirely sure who Madison is.
\nShowing up when nothing dramatic happens.
\nThat’s what Dad had done for me.
\nI just hadn’t noticed because children aren’t supposed to notice.
\nIn July, Mom called me.
\nShe had found another box of Dad’s things.
\nI went over.
\nInside were tools, photographs, an old baseball glove, and a stack of letters.
\nOne had my name on it.
\nMARK.
\nDad’s handwriting.
\nMy hands shook.
\n“When did he write this?”
\n“A few months before he died.”
\n“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
\n“I didn’t know it existed.”
\nI opened it.
\nThe letter wasn’t long.
\nDad never wrote long anything.
\nHis birthday cards usually said:
\nLove, Dad.
\nThat’s it.
\nThe letter said:
\nMark,
\nIf you’re reading this, your mother finally cleaned the garage, which means I’m probably dead because she’d never get away with it otherwise.
\nI laughed.
\nMom cried.
\nTypical.
\nI kept reading.
\nHe wrote about being proud of me.
\nAbout work.
\nAbout marriage.
\nAbout mistakes.
\nThen I reached the last paragraph.
\nSon,
\nYou may learn someday that blood is strange. People put too much faith in it. Blood can make you related to someone. It can’t make you stay. It can’t make you show up. It can’t make you love anybody well.
\nThat part is a choice.
\nChoose your family every day.
\nEven when they’re difficult.
\nEspecially then.
\nDad.
\nI read it twice.
\nThen three times.
\nMy mother whispered, “He always planned to tell you eventually.”
\nI folded the letter.
\n“I wish he had.”
\n“Why?”
\n“So I could tell him it didn’t matter.”
\nShe smiled through tears.
\n“I think he knew.”
\nI framed the letter.
\nIt went beside the budget page.
\nDaniel support: $0.
\nDoesn’t matter.
\nHe’s mine.
\nTwo pieces of paper.
\nTwo lessons it had taken me thirty-seven years and one missing hamburger to understand.
\nThen September came.
\nFriday Family Pizza Night.
\nAgain.
\nI’d forgotten about it.
\nCompletely.
\nThursday evening, I came home from work and found a school folder on the kitchen counter.
\nSame counter.
\nSame place.
\nFor a second, I was back one year earlier.
\nSuitcases by the front door.
\nBaby bag packed.
\nPurple backpack missing.
\nAn unsigned form.
\nMy stomach tightened.
\nI opened the folder.
\nFRIDAY FAMILY PIZZA NIGHT.
\nStudent: Lily Carter.
\nNumber of adults attending: 4.
\nI frowned.
\nFour?
\nI looked lower.
\nWHO WILL BE ATTENDING?
\nMother \u2014 checked.
\nFather \u2014 checked.
\nGrandparent \u2014 checked.
\nStepparent \u2014 checked.
\nBeside Stepparent was an arrow.
\nLily had written:
\nMY MARK.
\nThen below that:
\nHE IS BUYING EXTRA PIZZA.
\nI laughed so loudly Lily yelled from upstairs.
\n“What?”
\n“Nothing.”
\nShe came running down.
\n“What?”
\nI held up the form.
\nShe grinned.
\n“You found it.”
\n“You volunteered me to buy pizza?”
\n“Yes.”
\n“That’s financial abuse.”
\nShe rolled her eyes.
\n“You have a job.”
\n“Your father can pay for your pizza.”
\nThe words came out before I thought about them.
\nThe room went silent.
\nLily stared at me.
\nI stared at her.
\nThen she burst out laughing.
\nSo did I.
\nMy wife came in.
\n“What happened?”
\nLily could barely speak.
\n“He said\u2014”
\nShe laughed harder.
\n“He said Dad can pay for my pizza.”
\nMy wife’s face went pale for one second.
\nThen she realized we were laughing.
\nShe shook her head.
\n“You’re both terrible.”
\nI pulled out my phone.
\n“How many pizzas?”
\n“Four.”
\n“Four pizzas?”
\n“Yes.”
\n“How many people are coming?”
\n“Twenty.”
\n“Why am I feeding twenty people?”
\nLily shrugged.
\n“Because you’re my Mark.”
\nThat answer cost me sixty-eight dollars.
\nWorth every cent.
\nFriday evening, I arrived at the school before everyone else.
\nThe cafeteria looked almost exactly the same.
\nRed-and-white tablecloths.
\nPaper pizza decorations.
\nChildren running around.
\nSame terrible coffee.
\nI found Lily’s table.
\nSix chairs.
\nI smiled.
\nA year earlier, I’d stood beside one of those chairs wondering whether I was entitled to sit.
\nNow there was a handwritten sign taped to one.
\nMARK.
\nI ran my fingers over it.
\n“Don’t get emotional.”
\nI turned.
\nAaron was standing behind me.
\n“When did you get here?”
\n“Thirty minutes ago.”
\n“Texas flight okay?”
\n“Delayed.”
\n“Of course.”
\nHe pointed at my chair.
\n“Pretty impressive.”
\n“Yeah.”
\n“She made mine too.”
\nHis said:
\nDAD.
\nNext to it:
\nMOM.
\nGRANDMA.
\nLILY.
\nAnd a high chair for her little brother.
\nSix chairs.
\nDifferent titles.
\nSame table.
\nAaron sat beside me.
\nFor a minute, we watched Lily running around with friends.
\nThen he said, “Thanks.”
\nI looked at him.
\n“For what?”
\n“Showing up.”
\nI didn’t joke.
\n“Same to you.”
\nHe nodded.
\nThen he said, “She’s lucky.”
\nI looked toward Lily.
\n“No.”
\nI thought of my father.
\n“She’s loved.”
\n“Same thing.”
\nMaybe.
\nMy wife arrived with the baby.
\nMom arrived carrying cookies nobody asked for.
\nThen Lily came running toward us.
\n“You’re all here!”
\nLike she’d expected us not to be.
\nMaybe some part of her always would.
\nThat hurt.
\nMaybe healing doesn’t erase every scar.
\nMaybe it just teaches you how to stop creating new ones.
\nWe sat.
\nPizza arrived.
\nI paid.
\nGladly.
\nWe ate.
\nWe laughed.
\nLily told a joke nobody understood.
\nMy mother laughed anyway.
\nThe baby threw cheese at Aaron.
\nBest moment of the night.
\nThen Lily’s teacher asked families to take a photograph together.
\nWe stood behind Lily.
\nAaron on one side.
\nMe on the other.
\nMy wife beside me.
\nGrandma behind us.
\nBaby in her arms.
\nThe teacher looked through the camera.
\n“Everybody ready?”
\nLily grabbed Aaron’s hand.
\nThen mine.
\n“Ready.”
\nFlash.
\nThe photo printed from a little instant camera.
\nThe teacher handed it to Lily.
\nShe stared at it.
\nThen handed it to me.
\n“You keep it.”
\n“Why me?”
\n“Because you kept the beach one.”
\nI smiled.
\n“Okay.”
\nThat photograph is on my desk now.
\nIf you looked at it, you might not understand the relationships.
\nYou wouldn’t know which man shares Lily’s blood.
\nWhich man married her mother.
\nWhich child belongs biologically to whom.
\nThat’s the point.
\nYou’d just see a family.
\nAfter pizza night, we went home.
\nAaron was staying in a hotel.
\nMom drove herself.
\nMy wife put the baby to bed.
\nLily sat at the kitchen counter doing homework.
\nI went out to pick up a few groceries.
\nOn the drive home, I passed the burger restaurant.
\nThe same one.
\nI hadn’t eaten there in a year.
\nI almost kept driving.
\nThen I pulled in.
\nI ordered dinner.
\nWhen I got home, I carried the bag into the kitchen.
\nLily smelled it immediately.
\n“Burgers?”
\n“Yeah.”
\nShe looked inside.
\nThen she counted.
\nOne.
\nTwo.
\nThree.
\nFour.
\nMy wife came downstairs.
\n“You bought dinner?”
\n“Yeah.”
\nLily pulled the meals out.
\nOne for my wife.
\nOne for me.
\nOne smaller burger for her.
\nSomething soft for the baby.
\nFour meals.
\nShe looked at me.
\n“You remembered mine.”
\nI knew she was joking.
\nMostly.
\nBut somewhere underneath the joke was a nine-year-old girl standing beside a table one year earlier asking:
\nWhere’s mine?
\nI looked at her.
\n“I’ll always remember yours.”
\nHer smile faded.
\nShe understood.
\nMy wife understood too.
\nNobody spoke.
\nLily sat at the table.
\nI put her burger in front of her.
\nThen mine.
\nThen my wife’s.
\nThe baby slapped the table impatiently.
\nNormal dinner.
\nNothing special.
\nThat’s what made it special.
\nHalfway through, Lily asked:
\n“Do you ever wish that night didn’t happen?”
\nI stopped eating.
\nMy wife looked at me.
\nI thought about it.
\n“Yes.”
\nLily nodded.
\nThen I said, “And no.”
\nShe frowned.
\n“Why no?”
\n“Because I wish I never hurt you.”
\nI put down my burger.
\n“I’d take that part back immediately.”
\nShe waited.
\n“But I think I needed to find out what kind of man I was becoming.”
\nMy wife looked down.
\nI continued.
\n“I just wish you hadn’t been the person who had to get hurt for me to figure it out.”
\nLily thought about that.
\nThen she said, “You were kind of a jerk.”
\nMy wife nearly choked.
\nI laughed.
\n“Kind of?”
\n“A huge jerk.”
\n“Thank you.”
\n“You’re welcome.”
\nThen she took another bite.
\nConversation over.
\nKids are amazing that way.
\nAdults spend years turning pain into speeches.
\nSometimes children just call you a huge jerk and ask for ketchup.
\nThat night, after everyone went upstairs, I cleaned the kitchen.
\nI wiped the counter.
\nThen I noticed something taped beside Dad’s framed budget page.
\nA piece of paper.
\nLily’s handwriting.
\nFour words:
\nDOESN’T MATTER.
\nWE’RE YOURS.
\nI stood completely still.
\nUnderneath, she’d drawn four terrible stick figures.
\nMom.
\nBaby.
\nLily.
\nMe.
\nThen she’d added another figure off to the side labeled:
\nAARON TOO SOMETIMES.
\nI laughed and cried at the same time.
\nI sat at the kitchen table.
\nDad’s old watch was on my wrist.
\nThe repaired one.
\nI finally had it fixed.
\nIt ticked quietly.
\nFor most of my life, I believed being a good man meant providing.
\nPay the mortgage.
\nKeep the lights on.
\nWork hard.
\nProtect what belongs to you.
\nThen a nine-year-old taught me the problem with that last part.
\nPeople don’t belong to us.
\nWe belong to each other.
\nNot because a judge says so.
\nNot because DNA says so.
\nNot because someone sends child support.
\nNot because your name appears on the mortgage.
\nBecause when somebody sits at your table and looks at you wondering whether there’s a place for them, you make one.
\nI used to think Lily came into my marriage as part of my wife’s past.
\nA responsibility that belonged to another man.
\nAn expense that shouldn’t be mine.
\nI was wrong.
\nShe wasn’t part of my wife’s past.
\nShe was standing in my present.
\nAnd if I was lucky, she’d be part of my future.
\nI couldn’t undo the night I bought two burgers.
\nI couldn’t erase the moment she understood exactly how little space I’d made for her.
\nSome mistakes don’t disappear because you apologize.
\nYou simply spend the rest of your life answering them differently.
\nSo now when I stop for dinner, I don’t ask who paid child support.
\nI don’t ask whose name is on a birth certificate.
\nI don’t ask which child is technically mine.
\nI count heads.
\nMy wife.
\nMy son.
\nLily.
\nMe.
\nFour people.
\nFour meals.
\nAlways.
\nAnd every once in a while, when Aaron is visiting…
\nFive.
\nBecause apparently growth is expensive.
\nDad would laugh at that.
\nI think about him whenever I see the framed budget page.
\nDaniel support: $0.
\nDoesn’t matter.
\nHe’s mine.
\nFor years, those words belonged to him.
\nNow I understand them.
\nBeing a father isn’t the moment a child is born.
\nSometimes it’s the moment you decide a child will never again have to wonder whether there’s a plate for them at your table.
\nSometimes it’s fixing a bicycle.
\nSitting through a boring soccer game.
\nBuying strawberry yogurt.
\nSigning a school form.
\nShowing up at pizza night when you don’t know whether you’re wanted.
\nSometimes it’s admitting another man can be her father without that making your love smaller.
\nAnd sometimes…
\nit’s just buying the extra hamburger.
\nThe first burger I didn’t buy Lily cost eight dollars.
\nBut it nearly cost me my wife.
\nMy son.
\nMy home.
\nAnd a little girl who once called me “My Mark” long before I’d earned the name.
\nA year later, I finally understood something my father knew from the beginning.
\nLove isn’t divided when you give it to another child.
\nIt multiplies.
\nThere was always enough room.
\nI was just the last person at the table to realize it.
\nI looked at Lily’s note one more time.
\nDOESN’T MATTER.
\nWE’RE YOURS.
\nThen I turned off the kitchen light and started upstairs.
\nHalfway there, Lily called from her bedroom.
\n“Mark!”
\n“What?”
\n“Tomorrow is Saturday!”
\n“I know.”
\n“Can we get pancakes?”
\n“Sure.”
\n“From the good place?”
\n“Probably.”
\nA pause.
\nThen:
\n“And don’t forget mine!”
\nI stopped on the stairs.
\nFor one second, the entire year came rushing back.
\nThe burgers.
\nThe eggs.
\nThe suitcases.
\nThe empty chair.
\nDad’s receipts.
\nThe pizza form.
\nTexas.
\nChristmas.
\nEverything.
\nI smiled.
\n“Never again.”
\nAnd from her room, Lily shouted:
\n“Good!”
\nI continued upstairs.
\nMy family was waiting.
\nAll of them.
\nAnd this time…
\nthere was enough for everyone.
\n\u2014 THE END \u2014<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
PART 4 \u2014 THE SIX WEEKS I HAD LEFT Six weeks. That was the number that stayed in my head after my wife hung up. Six weeks until Christmas. Six … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5444,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6616","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6616","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=6616"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6616\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6617,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6616\/revisions\/6617"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/5444"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=6616"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=6616"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=6616"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}