For 20 years, I recorded that pause as the last piece of my mother that almost stayed.
Then he looked away.
“I’m sorry.”
He came out.
I stayed in the driveway until his car disappeared.
Behind me, three babies were still crying.
***
Chicago stopped importing before I even closed the door.
The next morning, I called the company.
The human resources woman sounded stunned.
“It hasn’t even started.”
“Lose.”
“We can delay your start date.”
“I can’t move.”
“Is there an emergency?”
I looked at the room.
Three Moses. I stopped breathing.
Three bottles cooling on the counter.
A baby screaming because apparently the other two had taken a suspiciously long break.
“Yes.” Saliva I swallowed. “The hay.”
That was the end of Chicago.
People loved the phrase “he gave up.”
They said it constantly.
Nothing about becoming a father happened in an orderly manner.
There were social workers.
