I smile at him. “She’s beautiful. And Rosie did so well. Twelve and a half hours in total.”
“Jesus,” Terry winces, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m so…” He raises his hands in front of him helplessly before dropping them with a shrug.
“I didn’t realize you’d still be here.”
He shrugs. “Andrea left eventually, but I just couldn’t.” He glances back up the corridor. “Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” he asks quietly.
I sigh, rubbing my hand over my beard. “That’s not for me to say.” My phone buzzes in my hand. “I have to get this.” I gesture to the phone.
Terry nods. “I’ll wait here. She doesn’t have to see me, but I’ll just like to wait. If that’s okay?”
I nod. “I’ll let her know when she wakes up.”
“Jackson,” Terry says when I turn my back. “Don’t make my mistakes.”
“Never,” I vow.
Bringing my phone to my ear, I tell my mother about her new grandchild.
46
ROSIE
4 months later
Jackson holdsthe door open for me as I push the stroller into the cafe. Inside, it’s light and airy, tall windows letting in sunlight from the landscaped garden and bathing the wooden tables in gold. It’s quiet for a Tuesday morning in June, with a few other families dotted around the space, laughing and chatting quietly, except for the couple sitting at the far corner of the room.
Dad is buried on his phone, his glasses perched on his nose. I’ve seen him more frequently over the last four and a half months than I have since I lived under his roof. After he waited at the hospital for hours for Olive to arrive, and then a further three hours before I was ready to see him, I figured he’d be allowed some home visiting privileges.
He comes over on Sundays and picks Olive and I up before taking us over to see Nanny.
He hadn’t made the effort in the months before I asked him to take us, but any awkwardness he felt about seeing hismother for the first time in nearly a year was overtaken by the desire to spend time with his new granddaughter.
“Hi Dad,” I say as we approach.
“Hello, sweetheart.” He glances up from his phone and stands, pressing a kiss to my cheek before all his attention is drawn to the giggling baby. “Hello, angel,” he coos as he lets Olive clutch onto his finger.
I relinquish my hold on the stroller and chance a glance at my mother. Her back is straight, her blonde hair perfectly styled and her hands clasped on the table in front of her.
She glances at me before her eyes are drawn to the stroller, and the little hand that appears from the lip.
“Hello, Rosalie,” she says thickly, glancing up at me.
“Hi, Mum.” I haven’t spoken to her since the baby shower, since I forbade her to come into the delivery room. Jackson filled me in on what was said afterwards, how my dad asked for a divorce and Jackson asked her to leave.
I tried not to think about it in the blur that was the first few weeks of Olive’s life. I had a baby to think about, who needed to be kept alive and fed and cared for. I didn’t have the energy to chase after a woman who didn’t want me.
Until a few weeks ago, in the car on the way home from the care home, Dad admitted that they’d been talking. He said he knew I couldn’t forgive her but that maybe it was worth a conversation. A meeting on neutral ground with lots of backup.
“Hi Andrea,” Jackson says, his voice is polite, even if I can see the tight smile he shoots at her.
Jackson pulls a chair out for me, taking the seat between my mother and I. I fidget in my chair before he places his large hand on my knee.
If I could have dreamed up the man who would become the father of my child, I never would have imagined I’d finda man like Jackson. He takes every nappy change, every night feed, forces me to rest when I need it and distracts Olive when all she wants is to cling to my body. Jackson is already wrapped around her finger, and she’s just as in love with him as I am.
“She looks bigger,” Dad says as he peers at Olive, who beams at him, her little body shimmying in her onesie.
She’s a wriggler, always wanting to move. God help us when she starts crawling. We’ll never catch her.
