I can’t just walk into the house and wrap both of them in my arms and voice how glad I am to be back home. I don’t have it like that with Ali. If I did act in that way, she’d probably slap me in the face and tell me to fuck off.
Okay. She wouldn’t act like that. She’d politely decline and back away before spending the next two weeks avoiding me.
Not wanting to risk missing cuddles with Aria due to her afternoon, after-lunch nap, I climb out of the truck and leave my gear for a later trip.
I go from ecstatic to mildly annoyed when I go to unlock the front door only to find it already unlocked. I make a mental note to calm down a little before I bring this mistake up to Ali. Coming home and starting a one-sided argument after being gone for a week is never a good thing.
Expecting to hear giggles and maybe the television playing that weird cartoon Aria likes with dolphins and other aquatic creatures, I frown as I enter the house to silence.
My ears perk up, wondering if they’re even home. It’s Saturday, meaning the daycare is closed. She knew I was going to be home around this time.
I’m annoyed as I make my way down the hall, freezing in relief when I hear Ali’s low voice. I pause, taking a few deep breaths to let go of the irritation that was quickly growing, before stepping closer.
“You can do it,” Ali encourages, and a smile sweeps across my face. “Try it. Ma-Ma.”
The smile shatters, falling away as if someone punched me in the face to remove it.
“Ma-Ma,” Ali says again and I see red.
I’m livid, pissed off beyond measure when I shove the door open so hard, it ricochets back toward me and I have to grab it with my hand before it hits me in the face.
“What the fuck?” I roar.
I see several things at once—Ali jolts, startled as she wraps protective arms around Aria. My little girl looks terrified, and it only takes a split second for her to wail in distress.
Lastly, I notice the picture frame that must’ve fallen from Ali’s lap as her first instinct was to protect my child. Smiling up at me from the photo is the happiest couple I’ve ever seen. Bright eyes focus on each other rather than looking at the photographer.
“Kiss your wife, Harley,” the woman had said. “But nothing dirty. Your parents will see these photos.”
Lana and I had laughed, both of us wondering when we could get rid of her and find a dark corner to celebrate being married alone.
My eyes coast from the photo to Ali holding my crying daughter. Her eyes are narrowed, angry for the way I entered the room.
“I assumed—”
“I know what you assumed,” she says, her voice cold and detached.
“Come here, sweet girl,” I say, reaching for Aria. “I’m so sorry.”
I can’t apologize to Ali. My emotions are still all over the place and I don’t want to get it wrong. Fuck, I’m always getting it wrong.
Aria wants nothing to do with me, crying harder and burying her face in Ali’s neck when I step closer with my arms out.
I’m dejected and heartbroken, watching Ali rub soothing circles on her back in an attempt to calm her down.
“I wanted her to get to know her mom as best she could.”
I swallow, knowing the sweetness of her gesture has now been ruined by my animalistic behavior. It kills me that Aria will never truly know how wonderful her mother was. Pictures and stories just aren’t the same thing as the memories of having spent time with someone. Aria won’t remember her mother at all, despite the hundreds of pictures we have of doing things as a family.
“I made a mistake,” I say because it’s the best I can do, and despite Ali’s normally calm nature, she gives me a look that says no shit, asshole.
I nod, agreeing with the sentiment.
“I’ll leave and let you calm her down,” I say before turning and walking out of the room.
Not being able to comfort my daughter while she’s upset is painful. Being the cause of her anguish threatens to gut me.
I pace the living room, taking note of the scattered toys that make the home look lived in rather than a little cold and clinical. Lana liked a spotless home, and I know that had more to do with growing up in foster homes and being subjected to the clutter that an overburdened house collected than any real form of OCD. I gave up trying to argue with my wife on it and eventually just started keeping it spotless exactly how she liked it. I knew she wouldn’t be able to rest easy at bedtime until everything was in its place.