Page 59 of Fighting Chance

ELLINGTON

fuck a jersey

she needs everything

IRVING

earmuffs

O’CONNOR

little mittens!

do they make small enough mittens?

LEWIS

BEANIE!!!

I’ll learn to sew

can we meet her???

IRVING

please please please!!!

Sitting in the recliner chair in Emmy’s room, I’m watching the video on repeat, a constant loop that would probably have those around me questioning my sanity.

I can’t help myself.

It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice.

Layla got to hear it, but I never did, not until she gave me this video and my god every time I watch it I don’t think my heart could melt anymore and yet it does.

It’s soft, high-pitched, and so adorable. She doesn’t seem to have a stutter at all, not like how the psychologist assumed she would. I spoke with her on the phone at length yesterday morning in preparation for her appointment Monday.

The speech therapist wanted me to know going in that her mutism could be for a plethora of reasons, some even medical, but after seeing this, I fear that her silence is a choice, one she fell into from trauma.

Another tear drops onto my phone screen.

I gave up wiping them off my cheeks since they won’t stop flowing.

I had accepted her heart and soul the moment the matron showed me the DNA results, and while Emmy has been comfortable around me, she hasn’t quite accepted me back. I know she’s gone through hell, has seen terrible things no child ever should,but hearing her so excitedly say I’m her dad made something click in my heart. We’re each other’s family.

I’m not sure how to go about it though. Do I wake her up and put the helmet on? Have the helmet on already? How do I merge the version of me she recognizes on TV with the man she was given to after her mom died?

Be yourself. Have fun with her.

Layla’s words come to mind and maybe, for now, I should hold off on showing her. I should build a relationship with her first.

A relationship built on a strong foundation of trust, stability, care, and love, not whatever her mom told her about the man on the TV.

A part of me also selfishly wants to know that if she likes me, it’s forme. I need to know I’m making Emmy happy because I’m giving her a joyful home, not an idolized version of myself.

Because I still can’t recall her mother. But that doesn’t surprise me.

Four years ago, around the time Emmy would have been conceived, I was a mess. Not that anyone ever noticed. I’ve always been able to function when it feels like I want to die.