Surprise

“Mommy, the milk spilled.” Tammi’s sitting in her little chair at the kitchen table, looking at me expectantly with those brilliant green eyes.

“Oh, jeez, Tammi. Again?”

“I’m sorry, Mommy.” Her small, shell-pink lips curve downwards into a pout. Between us is the milk, spreading across the floor.

“Right. Yeah. Sorry,” I mutter, grabbing a rag and getting on my knees to soak up the next sticky substance. “It was an accident. And you don’t need to be ashamed of accidents, Tammi.”

Tammi watches me silently from her chair as I work around the floor, scrubbing hard.

“Mommy,” she says softly, “am I an accident?”

I look up at her, at her bright eyes that are so intelligent, yet so innocent. Her little fingers clutch at the table, muscles and skin and bone that were formed inside of my body. It’s hard to believe I could create something so perfect.

“You weren’t planned,” I whisper. “But everyone likes surprises.”

“But surprises are always planned by someone,” Tammi insists, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

I pause for a moment, then concede, “I suppose your father planned you.”

“But Daddy left.”

“Yes, Daddy left. He thought…he thought it would be better to leave you as a gift to me.”

Her face contorts. “He didn’t want me?”

“No, sweetie,” I lie softly, looking into her face. “He wanted you so much. He just had things he needed to do.”

“Things that were more important than me.”

“Things that were more important to him.”

“Like what?”

“Like…silly things. Things that weren’t as good as you. He was confused.”

“Will he ever not be confused? Will he ever come back?”

I look into her face, into her eyes. The eyes that are his and not mine. She got the best of both of us in that face and that scares me—the things people do to girls like that. Sometimes I don’t want her to go out into the world. Bad things happen to pretty people.

“No,” I say. “Your father was born confused and I’m afraid he doesn’t know any better.”

Tammi is silent for a moment, digesting the fact that her father will never return.

“What’s more important to you than me?” she asks finally.

“Nothing,” I say.

“But a mommy always has to care about something.”

“You’re the something I care about.”

“But not the most,” Tammi states doubtfully.

“Yes, the most.” My voice cracks. “Tammi, I love you more than anything in the world.”

She stares at me. “But that’s what Daddy used to say. And now he loves other things more.”