The photograph from the café stayed on Iris's phone.
She looked at it several times that evening.
Sometimes she smiled.
Sometimes she simply stared at it.
I didn't ask what she was thinking.
I had learned that some questions needed to be allowed to come naturally.
When we arrived home, she went upstairs to change.
I put the kettle on.
The house felt different.
Not happier exactly.
Just different.
There was now another person in Iris's life.
A person who had always been there in one way, even when I had tried to remove him from our story.
A few minutes later, Iris came downstairs.
She was holding her phone.
"Mom?"
I turned from the kitchen counter.
"Yes?"
"Daniel sent me a message."
I looked at her.
"What did he say?"
She showed me the screen.
He had thanked her for meeting him.
He said he had enjoyed hearing about her life.
He also said he hoped she had gotten home safely.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing demanding.
Just a message from a father to a daughter.
Iris smiled.
"He asked whether I liked the café."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I did."
She sat at the kitchen table.
Then she began typing.
I watched her for a moment.
She seemed more relaxed than she had been the previous night.
But I knew there were still questions.
"Are you feeling okay about everything?"
She stopped typing.
"I think so."
"That's good."
She placed the phone down.
"Can I tell you something?"
"Of course."
"I liked meeting him."
I nodded.
"I'm glad."
"But it was strange."
I pulled out the chair opposite her.
"How so?"
She thought for a moment.
"He knew things about me without knowing me."
I understood.
"He knew my birthday. He knew my name. He knew I was born at the hospital."
She looked at the photograph on her phone.
"But he didn't know what music I listen to. He didn't know what I wanted to study. He didn't know I used to hate thunderstorms."
I smiled sadly.
"No."
"Those are the things fathers are supposed to know."
I lowered my eyes.
"You're right."
She didn't say anything for a moment.
Then she asked whether Daniel had ever seen her school photographs.
I shook my head.
"Not that I know of."
"Did he know when I graduated from middle school?"
"I don't think so."
She looked disappointed.
I wanted to explain that I hadn't known what to do.
But I had already explained enough.
Instead, I listened.
"He missed so much."
"Yes."
She looked at me.
"Why?"
I took a breath.
"Because I made decisions that kept him away."
She nodded slowly.
That answer wasn't going to make everything better.
But at least it was honest.
The next morning, Iris asked whether she could meet Daniel again.
I told her that was her decision.
She smiled.
"He said he might have that blue sweater."
I looked up.
"The one he bought before you were born?"
"Yes."
"He still has it?"
"Apparently."
She laughed.
"I want to see it."
I nodded.
"Then ask him."
She sent a message.
He answered a little later.
He said he would bring it whenever they met again.
Iris seemed pleased.
Then she asked me whether I would mind if they spent some time together without me.
I felt something tighten inside my chest.
But I knew what the question meant.
She wanted to know her father.
Not just hear stories about him.
She wanted to form her own memories.
"Of course you can."
She looked relieved.
"You're not upset?"
I shook my head.
"No."
She studied my face.
I knew she could see that I was struggling.
But I didn't want my feelings to become another responsibility she had to carry.
"You don't have to choose between us," I told her.
She looked down.
"I know."
I reached across the table.
"I hope you really do."
She took my hand.
Then she went upstairs to get ready for school.
After she left, I remained at the kitchen table.
I looked at the empty chair across from me.
For years, I had been the only parent in that house.
I had made every decision.
I had answered every question.
I had decided what Iris should know and when she should know it.
Now I had to learn something different.
Being her mother didn't mean controlling every part of her life.
It meant allowing her to grow, even when that growth brought her closer to someone I had spent years keeping away.
That afternoon, Daniel sent me a message.
He asked whether Iris had seemed comfortable at the café.
I answered honestly.
"She enjoyed meeting you."
He replied with a thank-you.
Then he sent another message.
He said he wanted to respect my place in Iris's life.
I read it twice.
I didn't know what to say.
Finally, I wrote that Iris needed both honesty and patience.
He agreed.
That evening, Iris came home carrying a small paper bag.
She placed it on the kitchen counter.
"What's that?"
"Something for you."
I looked inside.
It was a pastry from the café.
She smiled.
"Daniel told me you used to like those."
I looked at her.
"Did he?"
She nodded.
"He remembered."
I stared at the little paper bag.
It was such a small thing.
But it reminded me that the past hadn't been as simple as I had made it sound.
There had been good moments too.
There had been kindness.
There had been things worth remembering.
Iris went upstairs.
I stayed in the kitchen.
For the first time, I allowed myself to remember Daniel without immediately thinking about the argument that ended our relationship.
And that was harder than I expected.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: The Blue Sweater Daniel Had Kept Since Before Iris Was Born Finally Arrived, Along With a Memory That Neither of Us Was Prepared to Face
I Thought My Daughter Finally Had the Perfect Night, Until Her Prom Date Walked Into Our House With Something to Say
Part 13 of 20
