Robert calls you at 2:30 AM on June 21st. You can tell by the panic in his voice that you are his last resort and he begs you to come get Blythe, because Allison is in labor.
You don't remember her exact due date, but you remember it was near Blythe's birthday, and you DO remember that. July 23rd. You remember because you were at a conference, and you were thankful to have missed the big event. Now you just regret it.
You tell Robert to put Blythe in the car and that you will meet them at the hospital in their city, because you don't want them to waste an hour waiting for you. He thanks you half a dozen times before you hang up and throw on some clothes.
You didn't know your car could go this fast, and you think if you get pulled over you'll just have to knock the cop out and keep going.
You get to the hospital only fifteen minutes after them and Robert hands over Blythe without a second look before running to Cameron's delivery room. You look at your daughter, and she stares back at you with solemn eyes.
"Mommy cries," she tells you, and hugs you. You kiss her forehead because you don't know what to tell her.
"You have to walk like a big girl, because I have to carry your car seat," you tell her and she obediently releases your neck so you can set her on the floor. You hate your cane right now, because it's so obvious that your little girl needs to be held, but you can't juggle the car seat and Blythe and manage your cane without someone getting hurt.
She stays close, and you notice she matches her stride to yours, whether on purpose or by coincidence, you're not sure.
"Mommy didn't have time to pack me anything," she tells you as you fumble with the straps on her car seat – you think you should be better at that by now.
"You can sleep in one of my shirts," you offer, "and in the morning, we'll go out for breakfast."
Blythe beams and you wonder when her smile started to make your day, "I love you, Daddy!"
You swallow, because if you answer her, you'll choke on your own tears. Instead you nod, and you shut the door to your car.
You take her back to your apartment and you realize this is the first time you've had your daughter overnight since she was a baby. You tuck her in on an air mattress in your pink office, and you tell her a story about a princess who had to save a prince from a dragon, because you don't want her to think she can't rule the world one day.
She wakes you at six when she crawls into bed with you, and you're tired but you don't care. You drag her little body onto your chest and you tickle her and then you think that Cameron should be here.
But Cameron's at a hospital an hour away with her husband and hopefully a stalled labor.
You take Blythe out to breakfast, and you keep your cell phone on you in case Robert calls to update you, but you do not call him. You won't.
After breakfast (she ate three pieces of French toast, and you wonder where it went, because she's quite possibly the most delicate child you've ever seen) you take her to the store and she picks out her own clothes. You don't know how long you will have her for, and she's having too much fun, so you let her pick out enough clothes for a week. You hate that you have to check the tags in her clothes to see what size she wears.
You take her to the toy department and you set her down in the aisle of pink Barbies, and you are amazed when she glares at you and wanders off to the aisle where the books are kept.
"I don't like them," she says, pointing at the boxed dolls, "They're stupid. Doctors don't play with Barbie dolls, doctors read. Besides, mama said no one could really look like Barbie and that it is an," she pauses, and it is clear she's mimicking Cameron, "unhealthy stereotype. But I have baby dolls!"
You buy her all the books she points at, and a teddy bear to sleep with. In the checkout line, you can't resist her little smile when she asks for a candy bar. It is 10:30 in the morning, but you give it to her anyway.
If you had stayed, you think she would be Daddy's little girl, and you want to give her the world.
You are just buckling Blythe into her car seat and marveling at how much easier a smile feels than it did even two days ago, when your phone rings. It's Robert, and his voice sounds tired.
"She had him last night," he says, "He's going to be fine, they just want to keep him in the NICU awhile for observation. Can you keep Blythe another night? I want to spend time with my son."
You were with him until that last sentence, but something about the way he says it makes you queasy. You agree, trying not to sound like you're over the moon, and you tell Blythe she's a big sister.
You weren't expecting her to burst into tears, but you unbuckle her car seat as fast as you can and you pull her into your arms without a second thought.
"What's wrong?" you ask her, "Mommy had a baby, you have a little brother."
"Because now that he's here, Daddy isn't gonna want me," she sniffles, and your heart breaks, "I heard him tell Mama. I heard him say he couldn't wait for the baby because he wanted a real kid. I'm real, Daddy," she says plaintively, "I'm real."
Oh, no. This isn't about you, but this is your fault. Now she's been pushed aside twice in her short little life. And if you hadn't done it the first time, this wouldn't be happening now.
"That's not what he meant, Blythe," you tell her, but she gives you a look that tells you she's smarter than you're giving her credit for and so instead you just hug her again and put her back in her car seat, "Let's just go home, okay?"
She nods, and sniffles and you dig around in the shopping bag and pass her a book to look at.
You make pizza that night and you're feeling horribly domestic. You know this could have been your life; you could have had everything Robert has, and you want to kick yourself again for throwing them away. But now you have your daughter back, and it's something. And it makes you want to do better by her every single day for the rest of her life.
You let her sleep next to you that night, and you lay awake, watching her. She trusts you, and you don't deserve it. If she knew what you did, she wouldn't be able to love you. She shouldn't love you.