Page 60 of Hate to Love You

“See, Bobby! This is why you can’t be on my team,” a young girl yells, standing with her hands on her hips.

A smile pulls at my lips at the bossy little attitude she has. But when I look down at the ball in my hands, my stomach drops, the sad familiar longing creeping in between my bones.

What would life have been like if my child had survived?

How different would I be?

I’d never known the gender, but something in my gut always told me it was a girl. She’d be nearly five now.

My eyes burn as I consider the possibilities, all those “what-ifs” have plagued me for years. Wondering what my daughter might have looked like. Or if she’d have my eyes and his big nose. Would she have liked to play soccer? Or would she have taken after me, and found her joy amongst nature, or under a microscope?

“Hey lady!” The girl yells at me, pulling me from my spiral.

Clearing my throat, I look up at her.

“Can I have my ball back?” she asks, a small grubby hand pinning her windswept hair back. “Please?”

“Oh… yes! Sorry.” I say with a smile, dropping the ball to the floor before kicking it over to her.

“Nice footwork!” she yells, pumping her fist into the air.

“Have fun!” I yell back before looking back at the pond.

Yeah, I think that’s enough reminiscing for today.

I set off for the exit, inhaling deeply, and allowing the autumn air to fill my lungs, filtering out this emotional hurricane.

Flicking my wrist I see the time, sighing as I realize I’ve been walking around aimlessly for hours.

However, just as my watch face fades, it lights up again.

Number Unknown.

I let it ring, waiting for it to go to voicemail. But the moment it stops, it starts up again. Pulling out my phone, I swipe the screen bringing it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Abigail Wayne?” Chimes a female voice.

“Speaking.”

“Hello Abigail, this is Lucy Roberts. I’m calling in regard to your interview for the Secretary position with Mr. Antonov?” She says brightly.

Wait…the same interview that I just blew?!

I wait for her to continue, but the line stays awkwardly silent.

“Okay?” I say softly.

“Yes, sorry. Mr. Antonov would like—”

“Look, it’s okay, I understand—”

I interrupt, cutting her off with a heavy sigh.

“To offer you the position as his secretary,” she finishes.

“What?” I splutter. “I thought the interview didn’t go too well…” I trail off, running my hand through my hair.