Page 44 of Everything But Mine

“I don’t want to half-ass this.”

Her expression doesn’t soften. “The way you did almost three years ago?”

I stiffen. “You know about that?”

“You two think you’re subtle.” She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Amanda didn’t need to tell me anything. The way you circle around each other screams the whole story if you know how to read the cues.”

Shame crawls up my neck and settles there, heavy and familiar, and she lets it sit before speaking again.

“Tell me about your father.”

Of course. That’s where it always starts. I could keep it shallow, reduce him to a single act of abandonment and leave it there, or I could do this properly and expose the fractures that run through everything I am. I can’t do right by Amanda or her baby if I keep skirting how profound my inadequacy is.

“My father’s a piece of shit,” I say, choosing. “He didn’t just abandon my mother and me. He’s the embodiment of moral corruption, and there’s only one thing worse than knowing you carry his blood and wondering if you’ll become him.”

“And what’s worse than that?” she asks quietly.

“Knowing I’m so worthless,” I say, my voice rough, “that this asshole didn’t even want me.”

“I see.” She lets the silence stretch, deliberate and unkind in its patience.

“That’s why I want to parent with Amanda,” I continue. “There’s no way her child is growing up wondering if it’s his fault, if there’s something so fundamentally wrong with him that his own trash father couldn’t find it in himself to care.” I meet her eyes and hold them. “I’ll care. I’ll care in ways no one ever did for me.”

“But someone did care for you,” Val says, softer now. “Amanda did. You just never believed you deserved it. You still don’t, so how will you avoid falling into the same trap you did back then?”

“I won’t,” I say immediately. “I’ll never do that again.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. But we need to go into that night and figure out what triggered you.”

“I can’t today.” My chest tightens. “It’s too soon.”

“That’s fair,” she says. “But time is ticking, and until we unpack why you don’t think you deserve her love, you’re one bad day away from repeating your mistakes.”

I nod slowly, resignation settling in. “Alright. When do I come back?”

Her expression shifts just enough to register, the sharpest edges dulling into something careful. “Soon,” she says. “Very soon.”

Diego just can’t keep his fucking mouth shut. He dropped in a phone chat with his sister that Amanda and I are now living together. The sister told her mama, who told their papi, who told Aunt Kate and Uncle Sandro, who, in turn, told my mother. And now we are here, having brunch at Amanda’s parents’ with Mom.

When we walk in, Amanda goes straight toward her dad and wraps her arms around his neck. Uncle Sandro kisses her head and then indulges in the family ritual.

“Ciao, bella” Hello, beautiful, he says. “Come stai?” How are you?

“Domanda inutile!” Amanda responds.

Useless question. The translation echoes in my head at the same time as her voice echoes the melody of the song she’s referencing. I have seen them exchange this greeting thousands of times. Amanda and her parents share a family bond forged in love and vulnerability. It makes my chest hurt to think about it, so I focus on the spread in front of us.

Uncle Sandro’s unrivaled ciambella cake is the centerpiece of the table, but there’s also scrambled eggs, bacon, Irish bread, and white pudding. The last two are for sure courtesy of my mom. It’s an absolute melting pot of culinary traditions, and I wonder if this is what our Sunday breakfast table may look like a few years down the road as we try to honor our families’ heritages.

Amanda’s a hugger, so she’s engulfed first in a three-way hug with Mom and Aunt Kate, while Uncle Sandro pats my shoulder. Sandro and Uncle Tony, Diego’s dad, have been more role models to me than my own father ever has been. What they think about my raising Amanda’s child matters to me.

Our child. Amanda doesn’t want to tell them yet, and I’ve had to face myself in the mirror and repeat that her need for privacy isn’t a reflection of whether her parents would want me in her child’s life like this. It’s not like I know a lot about being a dad. I have the perfect example of what not to do in my own father. But there are people I can turn to, and one of them is staring me straight in the eyes, his lips moving.

“Son.” His palm puts pressure around my shoulder. “Was the drive okay?”

“Yeah, the drive was fine. Amanda drove most of the way.” Turns out it’s the only way that her morning sickness can handle a moving vehicle. But apparently, that’s the wrong thing to say, because Uncle Sandro’s eyes flick to Amanda. He doesn’t say anything, but his brow furrows in confusion, and then his eyes meet Aunt Kate’s.

After Sandro urges us to eat, Mom stops fussing over Amanda and hugs me. She’s leaned on me more than a parent should, but every time she hugs me, I bury my nose in her hair and feel that maybe everything will be okay.