Maisie talked almost the entire way out of the school.
She was still excited about the performance.
She told Russell about the music.
She described the part where she had to turn.
She even demonstrated one of the movements while holding his hand.
Russell listened to every word.
I walked beside them.
I wanted to feel happy.
Part of me did.
But another part kept remembering the two years when Maisie had nobody to tell those little stories to except me.
At the entrance, she stopped.
"Daddy, can you carry my bunny?"
Russell looked at the stuffed toy.
"Of course."
He took it carefully.
The pink ribbon was still tied around its neck.
Maisie smiled when she saw him holding it.
I remembered that morning.
She had tied the ribbon herself because she thought her father might recognize her.
He had recognized her.
But I wondered whether he understood what that little ribbon meant.
We continued toward the parking area.
Maisie walked between us.
Every now and then, she reached for Russell's hand again.
He never refused.
When we reached the car, she turned toward him.
"Are you coming with us?"
Russell looked at me.
I unlocked the car.
"You can come along for now," I said.
He nodded.
"Thank you."
I wasn't inviting him back into our marriage.
I was allowing our daughter to spend a little time with her father.
There was a difference.
Maisie climbed into the back seat.
She placed the pink flyer on her lap.
Then she asked Russell to sit beside her.
He looked at me.
I opened the passenger door.
"Sit with her."
He got into the back.
I started the car.
For several minutes, nobody said much.
Then Maisie began talking again.
She asked whether he had liked her costume.
He told her he had.
She asked whether he had seen the ribbon on Bunny.
He said he had noticed it.
She looked pleased.
I watched the road.
I didn't want to turn around.
I didn't want to interrupt.
But I could hear the emotion in Russell's voice.
He sounded like someone trying to remember how to be a father.
That thought made me uncomfortable.
He shouldn't have needed to remember.
He had been her father all along.
When we arrived home, Maisie jumped out before I had finished getting everything.
She ran toward the door.
"Come on, Daddy!"
Russell followed her.
I stayed behind for a moment.
I looked at the house.
The same house where I had waited for him.
The same place where I had answered Maisie's questions.
The same kitchen where he had told me he needed space.
Now he was walking inside again.
I wasn't sure whether I was ready.
But I followed.
Maisie went straight to the living room.
She showed Russell where she kept her things.
She brought him a drawing.
She told him about something that had happened at school.
He sat down and listened.
I stood near the doorway.
I didn't know what to do with my hands.
Russell looked toward me.
"Would you like some water?"
I almost laughed.
He was asking me whether I wanted water in the home where we had once shared every ordinary responsibility.
"There's water in the kitchen."
He nodded.
Maisie asked him to look at another drawing.
He turned toward her.
I went into the kitchen.
I needed a moment.
I filled a glass.
Then I stood beside the counter.
My phone was lying there.
I looked at it.
Seventeen calls.
No answer.
I remembered each attempt.
I remembered hoping that the next call would be different.
Now Russell was sitting in the next room.
I could hear him laughing with our daughter.
I didn't know whether to be relieved or angry.
Perhaps both.
A few minutes later, Russell came into the kitchen.
He stopped when he saw me.
"Can we talk now?"
I placed the glass down.
"Maisie is still awake."
"I know."
"Then keep your voice low."
He nodded.
I looked at the folded paper in his hand.
He was still carrying it.
I couldn't ignore it anymore.
"Russell, what exactly did you bring back with you?"
He looked down.
"This is something I should have shown you a long time ago."
"Then why didn't you?"
He took a breath.
"I couldn't."
I stared at him.
"Couldn't, or wouldn't?"
He didn't answer.
That silence told me more than I wanted to know.
He placed the paper on the counter.
For a moment, he simply looked at it.
Then he said he wanted to explain everything.
I looked toward the living room.
Maisie was still playing with her drawing.
I lowered my voice.
"You will have to tell me the truth this time."
He nodded.
"I will."
I looked at the folded paper.
"Then start."
But he glanced toward our daughter again.
And I realized that even now, he was struggling to find a way to speak.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: The Folded Paper Finally Reached My Hands, But Reading It Was Harder Than I Had Expected
The Morning My Husband Walked Away Without an Argument, Leaving Me With a Little Girl Who Still Believed He Would Come Home
Part 9 of 20
