the thing i absolutely 100% hate most about the finale is every single aspect of ellie — specifically how they left her mother nameless and faceless, how awful the whole thing was. so this is my take on fixing that godawful plot.
kinda?
it's a two part story. it's pretty different from my usual stuff, i think, but i hope you enjoy it.
i know i have to make a change
i say the same thing every day
but i just can't get up to the moon
'cause what you said was easy
seemed so hard to do
with each mistake i make i step away
Sweetie, there's a reason I haven't told you the story of how I met your father.
The bar was crowded and noisy, full of university students celebrating the end of term. The televisions above the bar were blaring some football game she didn't care about but most of the others seemed to: there were screams and cheers and chants from the crowd. She finished her shot and slammed the glass on the bar. "Another!" she screamed above the din, gesturing toward the bar tender (he's pretty hot, she thinks) and her empty glasses.
He slides her another vodka and she shows some boob. He smirks and turns away. Whatever. She's tired of the game and the cheering. Isn't there a jukebox here? She takes her glass with her and pushes through the crowd, smiling at the hotter, beefier guys and sliding against them. I really need to get laid.
The jukebox is digital; she clicks through the songs, finds one she remembers from middle school, seventh grade dances, when it was fresh and risqué and pulling hair and ass smacking was the dangerous giggly unknown — she grins, thinking of those beefy guys at the bar and rubs her back pockets for a quarter or change.
"Here," someone says over the din — she barely hears over the cheering of the crowd and some other sorority girls screaming go! go! go! but is suddenly aware of his presence, a crisp, smokey smell, expensive fitting clothes, he looks like a wall street douchebag, like a smarmy middle aged asshole, like the farthest possible man in the world from her ex. "Let me get that for you," he says, louder, pressing some quarters into her hand with smooth fingers (nice nails). The lines around his eyes look make him look mature. Confident.
She swallows some vodka and giggles. "Thanks! I'm Jenny! What's your name?"
… Yeaaaah. I'll tell you that story when you're older.
The story I want to tell you today starts a while later.
Nine months and fifteen days later, as a matter of fact, and let me sum up my mood for you: exhausted. I was unwashed, sore all over, and hadn't slept for fifteen days. Coincidentally, that was your exact age at the time!
We moved out of that apartment when you were only about a year old, so let me describe it for you: at the time I, we, lived in a studio in Hells Kitchen, because I was twenty-two and it had seemed really important to me to live in Manhattan instead of somewhere I could actually afford. I had a sofa that doubled as my bed, a couple of hot plates for a kitchen, and a bathroom laid out so that if you wanted to close the door you had to pull your knees up on the toilet, and if you wanted to get in the shower, you had to — well, same thing. There was a patch of open space between the sofa and the closet and my TV stand (I'd, optimistically, put down a rug), and when you were born I could mostly fit your crib in the closet — it only stuck out about half a foot, and my clothes could fit piled up next to the sofa.
It wasn't that bad. I was pretty proud of it, actually. I have pictures of it somewhere, even a few of you. I know there's one of you playing with your bunny on the rug in storage somewhere, and I gave your dad a picture of him and you on the sofa when you started elementary school…
But anyway. Flashback to 2020.
You were just the cutest baby, with your squashed up little nose and big blue eyes, but on that particular day I was so tired I wanted to cry. I didn't even know wanting to cry was an emotion, but trust me, it was. I wasn't sad, depressed, mad, happy, anything. I was just wanting to cry. I remember I was sitting on the sofa in a sort of stupor. You were asleep and the TV was off but I was staring at the black screen anyway, looking at my own reflection. Unwashed, stringy hair, unwashed, loose tanktop and sweats. I had been holding a stale donut for like an hour without eating it. I kept thinking I should totally eat this and never actually got around to taking a bite.
I was a mess.
So when your dad started banging on my apartment door, I was seriously not in the mood.
Actually, I was so out of it that I didn't even register the banging at first. But after a minute (I guess), your dad switched it up — not banging on the door exactly, but knocking in a sort of rhythm, dah-dah-dahdahdah, and the tune caught my attention. I staggered up from the sofa and, still holding my donut, walked across the room and checked the peephole. Like I said, it was your father. I'd seen him a couple of times in the days since you were born, and about the same number of times during my pregnancy. Let me just lay it out for you: I did not like him very much back then.
But he was your dad, so I opened the door. (I left the chain on.)
"Yeah?" I asked.
"Jenny, hello," he said in this fake, smooth voice.
Seriously. I really didn't like him. This might come as a surprise to you: I actually hope it does. Your dad and I have worked pretty hard over the years to be friendly. After I got pregnant, I wanted as little to do with him as he wanted with me — I wasn't even completely sure he was your dad for most of my pregnancy. It's a long story.
Okay, not that long: just before I met your father, I'd had a bad breakup with a guy I'm going to call Douchenozzle. At the time I thought I was madly in love with Douchenozzle, but he cheated on me. I went out and got myself some revenge — coincidentally, this was the same day I met your father! — and then turned up pregnant a couple of weeks later. I didn't know if Douchenozzle was your father, thought I was in love with him, thought it'd be a new chapter for me and him, possibly with me as Mrs Douchenozzle, because I was twenty-two and incredibly stupid. Obviously this didn't work out — Douchey McDoucherson hauled ass out of there as soon as he found out I might be having his kid, and paternity tests proved you were your father's. In retrospect, thank god for that.
But the key word there is "retrospect." I like your dad now, but back then?
HAH.
"What do you want?" I asked him from the other side of the chain.
"I wanted to see Ellie!" he said cheerfully, holding up some gigantic toy or another. I seriously can't remember what it was anymore, let's say it was an elephant.
"You can't give Ellie an elephant," I said (probably).
He gave me a shit eating grin. "It's cute. C'mon, Jenny."
Your grandma and grandpa got divorced when I was three, and I never really saw my dad much after that: he got married and had Uncle Kaiden and Aunt Ashley and I always kind of resented him for it. So when you were born and your dad shocked all of New York Presbyterian by sticking around for it, I knew I wanted him to be part of your life if he was willing.
So I sighed and shut the door, undid the chain, and let him and the elephant in. I took a couple of bites of my donut and walked back over to the sofa.
Whenever your dad used to visit my apartment, he'd have this look on his face — raised eyebrows, wide eyes. Badly hidden disgust, basically. I mean, you know what your dad's place is like. I don't know if you've noticed, but he still does it when he comes over. "Is she sleeping?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said. He put the elephant down somewhere and walked over to the crib. I watched him coo over you, looking super out of place in his Prada or whatever. When we'd met, I thought it was kind of sophisticated and cool, but in my apartment he just looked ridiculous.
"Don't wake her," I said as he started to reach for you in your crib. He ignored me. "I'm freaking serious," I snapped. (I might have used a different word.) "You'd better not wake her the freak up."
"Relax," he said all smarmy. "She's my kid, I got this."
"Right," I snapped. "She's your kid. You looooove her. That's why I've been shut up in here for two weeks while you're out sleeping with college girls."
I think even at the time I kind of knew that didn't make sense. It wasn't like your dad had custody, he was basically just a line on your birth certificate. But I was alone in a big city and incredibly tired.
He turned away from your crib so I could see his wounded look. It didn't really work, because I was over my Bad Life Decisions With Men phase.
"You look like crap," he said, which helped me with that resolve. "You look awful. And you're talking like a crazy psycho lady, when was the last time you…" (I think he was probably trying to tell me I looked exhausted, but your father has never had much of a way with words)
"Oh my god, get out," I said. I tried to rouse myself from the sofa.
"Wha—" He took a step back, his voice got high, and you started to wake up, making these squalling bird noises as you started to cry. It was like your father was suddenly invisible and I wasn't an undead zombie: I launched myself up and had picked you up with olympic speeds, bouncing you and holding your head and making shush-y noises. You had this adorable duck onesie back then. I put it on you whenever it was clean.
After a little while I had you calmed down and sat on the couch with you to feed you. It's not like I had forgotten your father was still there, except I really didn't care about him. He wasn't doing much — I guess just standing there watching me with you.
It must have been weird for him. At the time I didn't notice, didn't care — I really barely knew him, to be honest. He could have sat down on the sofa next to me and spilled out his heart and soul and I would have shrugged. Said something like yeah, that sucks. Maybe mentioned my own recent breakup with Douchenozzle.
It's almost funny to imagine.
"I know you don't like me much," I imagine he says, as I cover myself with a towel and give you the boob. I'm not looking at him, but at your little face, the puffs of hair.
"You're right," I say.
"The truth is," he says. "I'm a screw up. I've messed up every good thing I've ever had. It's not on purpose, but I lose track of what I'm thinking and saying and I hurt people. I don't mean to. I really don't." He comes over and sits next to me on the sofa, our knees touching. I look at you, and he looks at his legs. "I got divorced a couple of years ago," he says in this fantasy of mine, "and I don't really know why? I'm not crazy or stupid. I know why I signed the papers and why she did, all the problems we were having. But I lie awake and can't figure out how it got to that point. We used to be so happy."
"Sometimes relationships end," I imagine telling him. "I thought Mike and I were soulmates. That we had this connection, this deep bond. I'd look at him sometimes and be so sure I understood every thought he had, could read his every mood and movement. Whenever we'd fight it broke my heart because I loved him so much, but I thought that even that pain was proof of how much we loved eachother. Only he could hurt me that badly, because we were so much in love."
"I thought something like that about her, too," I figure he'd say — because back then, I couldn't imagine any other love than one of slamming doors and melodramatic tears.
"But he cheated on me," I said, "and she left you, and we met in a bar when we were both trying to forget how much that hurt."
Let me be clear — none of that happened.
I don't know, maybe your dad is different around his friends and family. But he and I have never sat anywhere and poured our hearts out. To be honest, it'd be kind of weird. But even though I'm making up the details here, that day in my apartment was the closest we ever came to that kind of conversation.
Well, okay — I did ask him, three years ago, about his divorce. This was right before I got married to your stepdad.
I love Dave more than I can explain to you, Ellie. And he loves me the same way, and loves you like you were his own daughter. But something funny comes over you when you get married. As much as I loved him, as much as I wanted to marry him, I was scared. I'll explain more when you're older, but for most of my life I've dated men like Mike or your father, men who are older and closed off and act like they're in charge, who lead their own lives without much regard for anyone else, whose scraps of affection felt special because they were so rare. Maybe it's not fair to include your father in that: he loves you, he's always made sure you know it, and I never really dated him; I'm friendly with him, but I don't know what he's like in a relationship. But it's also true that when I met your father, he reminded me of Mike.
Dave is nothing like Mike, but I was still scared of marrying him, a few days before the wedding. I was on the phone with your father finalizing when he was going to pick you up — you stayed with him while Dave and I were on our honeymoon, remember? — and I just kind of asked him: "You used to be married, right? Why did you get divorced? I mean, was it even worth it?"
He didn't answer; he was actually quiet for so long that I was starting to think maybe we'd gotten disconnected. It didn't occur to me to apologize or think my question was rude. "Barney?" I asked.
"I don't really know?" he said. It's unusual for him to sound hesitant, but he did.
"You don't know?"
He sighed, a loud, almost angry sounding puff in my ear that went on for a few seconds. "I never really wanted to get married in the first place," he said. "I mean… I wanted her more than anything. But getting married was kinda just an excuse."
That sounded pretty backwards to me. Marriage was supposed to be the culmination of the love story, the happily ever after, the last moment of Cinderella when she's waving to the crowd with her prince in the pumpkin coach. (Your favorite part of the movie, right, Els?)
"So you never really wanted to be with her?" I asked. I probably should have known better than to ask the divorced father of my only child for wedding tips in the first place, but that never really occurred to me.
"Of course I did," he said with force. "I did more than anything. I would have been happy if we got married in AC, or had the big pain in the ass wedding we did or never married at all. We could have been engaged forever like Ted." (I want to add here that I have never met Ted Mosby but feel like I know his entire life story forwards and backwards after ten years of knowing your father.)
"Do you still feel that way?" I asked. "I mean, I'm getting married in less than a week and I want to, of course I do. But my parents divorced and you divorced and all my friends are single except for Britt — odds are me and Dave aren't going to last, and then what? I don't want to look back on all my memories and go why the hell did I waste my life on this. Why did I marry someone who only hurt me, why did I love someone who didn't feel the same? I know everyone is always saying it's better to love and lose, but where I'm sitting, I don't think so. Some things you can look back on with nostalgia, but heartbreak? Loss? What do you think about that, Barney? You have painful memories, don't you? Maybe you look back on my pregnancy fondly now even though you were afraid and angry back then, but that's because you have Els now and love her and know she loves you. You were scared and it must have hurt, having a child you didn't think you wanted, but now it doesn't matter because your love has overtaken that fear and pain. But can a divorce, an actual loss, be like that? Can you ever look back on a failed relationship or marriage and believe that? It's been seven years now since Mike and I broke up and I'm not angry or hurt anymore but when I think about him I feel this tired distaste; I don't remember the good times and think oh, it was worth it, I remember the good and bad times and think I'm going to call him Douchenozzle to my kid. So what do you think? If it doesn't last forever, does it really count?"
I didn't put it like that, all eloquent and frantic and rushed, my heart pounding and hand clutching the phone in my hand, my eyes locked on myself in the bathroom mirror, blurred with panicked tears. I probably just said what if we divorce too. But that's what I was thinking. It was.
"Maybe you will," said your father, the downer.
I remember I laughed and wiped my tears. "Thanks."
"I never asked myself that stuff," he said, sounding pensive. "I didn't really have a plan. And I like plans. I love plans. I could put a plan in a warm bubble bath and go to town on a good plan until it was ready to do anything I wanted in gratitude. But when it came to Robin…we never really made plans together. Maybe that's why…"
I was a little weirded out by his bathtub story, but also fascinated. Like I said, this was only the second time we'd ever really had a conversation like this. In eight years. "You divorced because you didn't make plans?" I asked.
He was quiet again, but not for as long. "I didn't think I had to make plans. I didn't think I needed to do anything else once I had her." He hums, a single, thoughtful note. "That's what I think. You gotta make plans with a girl. Or a guy. Plans to keep them."
It really didn't answer any of my questions, but I smiled. "Plans to get them back?"
I imagined him nodding. "Definitely those."
In the end, my bridesmaids — Britt and Aunt Kaitlyn — got me down the aisle. As soon as I saw Dave standing up there, fidgeting, all my nerves went away. Kyle nudged Dave in the ribs when I appeared and the look on Dave's face…
Anyway, I never ended up needing your father's advice after all.
But that was seven years after you were born.
I was telling you a story from when you were fifteen days old.
I'd sat on the couch and was starting to feed you, and he did come over and sit next to us: not knee-to-knee, but as far away as he could, his legs spread and elbows on his knees. I was aware of him again but kind of ignoring him: as far as I was concerned, he'd given you your elephant and seen you and was welcome to go off and do whatever it was he did again.
You were on my boob and I was watching you — squashed nose, blue eyes, wispy hair: I read somewhere that babies are designed to look like their fathers when they're very young, and you really did look like him back then.
"Hey," he says, awkwardly. (I didn't reply.) "I'm… sorry I called you disgusting and greasy." As a matter of fact, those were two completely new insults right then. Your father was an ass. "Don't kick me out."
I told you before that your father's wounded look has never worked on me. That's kind of a lie. He was doing it then and it totally worked. I sighed. "Listen, jerk." (I might have used a different word) "I just had a freaking baby. Excuse me for not looking like Playboy's October centerfold."
"I don't really care if you don't," he said. "It's not like I ever want to hold hands with you ever again." (He didn't say that exactly.)
"The feeling is mutual, douche," I said.
He sighed, loud and frustrated. "I wanted to ask you something. Run something by you."
"Like what?"
"It's a favor to you too," he said, kind of more perky as he did like it was gonna win me over.
I was on to him. "Like what?"
"Why don't you let me take Ellie for a day or two?" he asked. My eyebrows went way up into my hairline.
"I'm sorry?" That's what your grandma always says. It's code for are you kidding me right now you massive idiot who I can't believe is stupid enough to even say what you just said.
"You're exhausted and probably could use a day or two to rest… clean…" he looked around my apartment. "Burn this trash heap to the ground…"
"You want to take my baby?" I held you a little closer to me; you squirmed and reattached to my boob.
"She's my kid too," he said. He didn't quite make eye contact. Back then, I think he was a little ashamed or uncomfortable about you. He loved you, he's always loved you: don't ever think he didn't or that I didn't know that, Els. But until you were born he'd never wanted a baby — that's how much he loves you — and I don't think back then, when you were brand new, he really knew how to deal with it yet.
Anyway, I didn't have a great counter for that. "No," I said.
He looked wounded — not in that smarmy annoying way of his, but for real. "Please, Jenny," he said. "She's my kid. I want to help take care of my kid."
I held you close to me and smelled your head and hair. Babies have a certain smell when they're clean. I can't really describe it, but you were the best smelling baby in the entire world. It wasn't like I couldn't understand the urge to be around you. I was exhausted and admittedly pretty cranky, but I had no intention of going more than two feet away from you at any point in time.
So I was melted. "Well… if you want to come over more… I guess it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to get more sleep," I said.
"I was thinking I could take her for a couple of days," he said, really quickly. (Because he probably knew I was gearing up for another sorry?) "I bought a crib and a changing table and toys and stuff for my place and Lily painted an animal mural in my spare room and Tracy knit a little tiny blanket so I'm crazy prepared, and I could watch her, maybe, this weekend?" I opened my mouth and he added: "Or just tomorrow? Tomorrow afternoon-through-evening? Five-thirty to nine-ish?"
That was way too specific. "What do you want her for?" I asked.
"Because she's my daughter who I love more than life itself," he said with dripping sincerity. He has this way of making his eyes look really big and really blue — it's how he gets so many weekends with you in the summer.
Except you were fifteen days old and I really didn't want to let you go. "What's the real reason?"
"There's no," he started to say.
"I might let you have her," I said, "but only if you tell me the real reason."
He glared at me and looked around my apartment and then huffed and leaned back against my sofa. "Ted's getting married tomorrow. I'm supposed to go but I need a reason not to."
That made no sense. I barely knew your father back then and it made no sense. You know him now and you know your Uncle Ted and you know how little sense that made.
But here was the part where it did start to make sense again, when he looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath and said: "and Tracy told me my ex-wife might be there."