The little girl sat on her knees, leaning on the back of the couch with her elbows. She steadily stared out the window through the rain. One by one she watched each car pass. As each set of blurry white headlights came into view, a new bubble of hope and anticipation would swell up in her chest. As each blurry set of tailights passed, the bubble of hope was pierced with something hot and sharp, and the pain was physical enough to almost make her gasp.

She didn’t know how long she had been waiting, and she wasn’t sure when the tears started. She liked to rest her hand on the coolness of the window pane. The cool condensation helped to calm her. She made a mental note of the difference between the cool wetness of the window and the hot river on her face. It was something to think about to pass the time.

She could hear Mama pacing behind her, in her frenetic, hurried stomp. There was an occasional bang or slam  in the kitchen so that her presence would not be ignored. Every once in a while, she would come close behind the girl and sigh loudly. The sigh that showed her disappointment and frustration. The sigh that said that she wouldn’t allow this hopeful waiting much longer. The baby was quiet, either playing alone or already asleep. It was dark now.

She was worried and scared and lonely, but she wouldn’t move from her spot. It was easier to be still, and the waiting was her only task. If she was still and quiet and patient, everything would work out. So she busied her mind with the sound of the rain, the muffled engine sounds on the street, the splashing of the tires, the coolness of the pane, the scratchiness of the couch, and tried to ignore the banging, slamming and sighing sounds.

Finally, Mama allowed she had sat there too long. She couldn’t take it any longer. “That’s enough!” she said. “He’s not coming, get out of the window now.” The little girl didn’t move. She would stay in the window. It would be so sweet to fall asleep here and let him wake her up. That would be nice. She would wait a little longer.

Mama wouldn’t have it. She pulled her away from the window. The little girl was standing now, the pain in her chest excruciating. The pounding and the aching taking her breath away. Her mind swirling, her calm disappeared. She looked up at Mama through blurry eyes, and saw that she was angry. She screamed at Mama and her voice and words astonished her: “You’re mean! You made my daddy go away!” The little girl stomped her foot and tensed her arms, fists clenched, and threw her chin out. She glanced toward the street. She knew that she needed to be in that window. He might miss the house and drive right by if she wasn’t sitting there with her face in the pane.

She watched Mama’s face for the terrible reaction she expected. First there was shock, then rage, and the little girl stepped back, and then something like a tight smile. “You’re being ridiculous. He isn’t coming. He’s not really your daddy anyway.” The tense little body went slack. She didn’t know if she was standing or crumpled on the floor. All of the air left her chest, as though she had been punched. There was no sound other than the high pitched buzzing in her head. No light, other than a blinding white blur.

She looked at Mama, her eyes begging, willing her to say something else, something different. “It’s ok”, she said. It was not ok. “I had to tell you eventually. He’s the baby’s daddy, but not yours.” The floor was disappearing beneath the girl and mama was deadly calm. Her voice was even kind now. The girl needed to feel the realness of the scratchy couch and the cool window.

She leaned her head against the window and stroked the couch as Mama talked. She talked, and talked, and talked. She said things the girl didn’t understand. Words like pregnant and out-of-wedlock. In the end it was ok, Mama said, because, “I wanted you, even if no one else did. I finally had someone to love.” It’s ok, she kept saying, but she didn’t know. Mama still had a daddy.

The little girl was four.

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