Page 25 of Damon
Damon
“So, how does it feel? You’re a father,” Harrison asks.
My friend came straight to the hospital when I phoned him and told him of my daughter’s arrival. We’re sitting in the room the nurses made up after I advised them that Emma wanted me and the baby to leave as soon as she was born. Her request stung, but I understand why.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, still staring at the little person in my arms. “I can’t believe she’s here.”
“Connie would be so proud,” he says. The statement’s not as difficult to hear as I thought. And in true Harrison style, he says the uncomfortable words out loud, and I need to suck it up.
“She would be.” My little girl is wrapped in a soft pink knitted blanket. On her head is a matching hat that Harrison’s housekeeper Mrs. D made. “I hate that she is missing this.” The devastation of her being gone resurfaces for a moment; it has on and off all day. But then I look at my daughter, and all I feel is joy that she is here.
“You have to enjoy it enough for both of you,” he tells me. “This little one is a gift. Have you decided on a name?” I look from my daughter to my friend, then my focus returns to her.
“Constance.”
“That is beautiful and a nod to her mother too, I assume.”
“It means steadfastness,” I say. “It embraces everything we’ve been through for her to be here. All the sadness and heartbreak. We’ve endured it all, and she’s here.” Choosing her name was probably my most difficult task. I debated whether a name close to Connie was the right decision, but it felt like the least I could do. She deserves to be recognized.
“When do you get to take her home?”
“Tomorrow. My mother is also arriving then; she will stay with us for a few weeks, then I’ll be on my own. I’ll need to sort childcare, whatever that will look like.” My mind whirls with the thought of how I am going to balance my job and my new family. It’s an issue I’ve been ignoring for months.
“Can you not arrange some time off?”
“With the ongoing cases, I doubt it. It was hard enough negotiating two weeks of paternity leave. But to be honest, that isn’t what I’m most concerned about. I need your help.”
“Anything,” my friend responds immediately. “Whatever you need.”
“I’m worried about Emma. She’s going to leave here and move to an empty apartment. Things have been…” I pause, unsure what to say or how to explain something I don’t even understand myself. “Things have changed. She was more emotional. More vulnerable. It’s been a traumatic year for her as well as me. She’s not as strong as she makes out, and this has taken more out of her than I think she ever thought it would.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Will you take her home tomorrow? Ensure she’s safe? Keep an eye on her? I know you’re preparing the paperwork for her to waive her parental rights, but I’m concerned this hasn’t been as easy for her as she thought it would be.”
“I can do better than that,” he says, flashing me a reassuring smile. “I’ll allocate the task to Mrs. D. She will love having someone to check up on.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything else you need?” he continues.
“Yes, but I don’t think it’s your responsibility to do it.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell my in-laws they’re grandparents to the child they didn’t want.”
Chapter eleven
Emma's Apartment, Canary Wharf
Emma
Harrison arrived at two o’clock this afternoon to take me to my apartment. He walked in dressed the most casually I’ve ever seen him, in jeans, a white polo shirt, and a navy wool coat. The blatant concern in his eyes told me all I needed to know—I looked like shit.
“How are you?” he inquired.
“Fucking terrible,” I replied bluntly. He nodded then asked if I was ready to leave.