The Impossible Choice

She had discovered her pregnancy late. She was lost, panicked. She had no one to help her. A doctor had told her it was too late to have an abortion. But she didn’t want this baby. Neither do I. The world collapsed around me that day. But the next day I realized. I couldn’t let anyone go through what I had gone through. So I tried to be present. Not easy when the girl carrying the child refuses to go to any medical appointment. I have never attended an ultrasound. On the day of the delivery, Ariane called me, more panicked than ever. I didn’t have a driver’s license but I had already spent enough hours behind the wheel to know how to do it. I joined her at her house and borrowed her parents’ car. They were absent, like every day as far as I understood. The birth was very difficult for her. She didn’t want to become a mother, she didn’t want this being coming out of her body, she didn’t want this suffering, she didn’t want any of that. I stood next to her and said nothing. I was captivated by what fell on my head.C0ntent © 2024 (N/ô)velDrama.Org.

 Mila was born on the fifth of September. The day my life changed. I looked up into his eyes and knew. The two of us were going to be one hell of a team. The nursery nurse asked me to give her a bodysuit and a pair of pajamas but I had nothing. Ariane hadn’t bought anything and I hadn’t thought of it. I wanted it so much! My daughter had been born barely five minutes earlier and now I was already failing in my role as a father. I ran to the first store I found, bought the cutest stuff, and came back to the maternity ward. Mila was swaddled in a swaddle, peacefully asleep in her crib, next to her mother’s bed. Ariane stared into space. She didn’t react when I showed her what I had bought. She didn’t react when Mila started crying from hunger. She did not react when it had to be changed. She didn’t react when the pediatrician told us we could go home three days later.

 The only time she came out of her lethargy was when she packed her suitcase and left us. Mila was five days old. We were installed in my small room, with Jacques and Annie. Ariane pretended to pick up things at her place. She never came back.

 For almost six months, I flooded his voicemail with messages. I sent her pictures, convinced that she would change her mind when she saw her daughter’s face. But I was wrong. And the day I realized it, I jumped at the only opportunity I had and took the plane, Mila in my arms.

Tony

 Our little apartment is totally silent when I slip out of the sheets. I fumble for my glasses in the dark, quickly slip into old clothes and tiptoe out of my room. I take advantage of the calm to go get the gift I hid in the backyard of the pub, one floor below where I’m staying. Despite the creaking wood under my shoes, I go up the stairs making as little noise as possible but I know that the minutes are counted. Although my daughter is usually a late riser, she always opens her eyes at dawn on her birthday. I place the surprise in the middle of our tiny living room before hurrying to the kitchen where I place her favorite cup on the table. I take out a bottle of milk, the dark chocolate then I turn on the gas. The flames crackle but eventually stabilize to give me time to heat the milk with a few grains of brown vanilla sugar that I prepare once or twice a year. When it reaches the right temperature, I dip squares of dark chocolate into the hot milk while stirring gently. A delicious brown foam forms on the surface and I smile.

 I’ve always loved mixing ingredients, experimenting with my own food, but I didn’t really start cooking until we settled down here in Ireland. All it took was one day that was a little more complicated than the others, a loneliness that was a little too clinging to my skin and a few ideas that were a little too gloomy for me to rob the small local convenience store, a makeshift baby carrier attached against my chest, a few coins jingling at the bottom of my pocket. That day, I spread out everything I had found on the table in my little kitchen and I closed my eyes. I emptied myself, looked for a corner of calm in the middle of the tumult of my thoughts. And an image appeared behind my eyelids. A puff topped with a cracker and garnished with a passion-chocolate cream. A memory of my adolescence, when I wandered the streets, without a future and without a penny in my pocket. I was fifteen I think. I had passed a pastry shop displaying its marvels in the window. I had seen this cabbage, I had only seen him. He was perfect. Perfectly round, perfectly filled, perfectly enticing, perfectly indulgent. I had imagined its taste on my tongue, this paradise in my mouth. When I got home to my host parents, I asked them if they could buy me something to make one myself. The one who was hosting me simply replied that the race budget was tight and that we couldn’t afford to buy everything that came to mind. I didn’t insist, she was already nice enough to take in a kid no one really wanted, I wasn’t going to risk her not wanting me anymore. So I forgot this cabbage and my somewhat crazy desires to create something with these hands that no one believed in.

 I barely have time to whip the very cold cream to whip it up when behind me, a hell of a racket is already being heard. Small steps hurrying down the hallway, the sound of a comforter dragging on the floor, hanging from a small hand squeezing it hard. I turn around, pan in hand. I’m immediately greeted by my daughter’s bright smile as she trots over to me, her long brown hair tangled around her beaming face. I pour the hot chocolate into her purple cup then I draw a beautiful whipped cream flower on the surface of the brown liquid. Sparkling, Mila’s eyes follow my every move, fascinated by the spectacle I offer them. I quickly put the pan back on the small cabinet next to the stove before taking my daughter in my arms and planting a huge kiss on her forehead. Then I lower my gaze to match his and wave my hands.

 -Happy birthday my darling, I sign.

 His smile immediately widens. She puts her little arms around my neck, skipping. When she releases me, it’s only to plunge her rosy lips into the hot chocolate. She closes her eyes, tastes each flavor that tickles her taste buds. It’s not often that I take the time to make her a homemade hot chocolate so she knows how to appreciate it. With a large spoon, she plunges into the whipped cream which she tastes with half-closed eyelids.

 – It’s too good dad! she said to me with her small hands.

 At the maternity ward, during a banal deafness test, the pediatrician detected an anomaly in Mila. Several further examinations told me that she was born with a malformation of the inner ear. She hears no sound. Neither the most serious nor the most acute. I never knew where this problem came from, the pediatrician suspected either hereditary deafness or deafness due to damage to the newborn. And given the lifestyle of the one who wore it for nine months, I would rather go for the second solution. But I will never know. She abandoned us on the fifth day of Mila’s life.

 After giving myself the same sweet treat as my daughter, I take her favorite pastry out of the fridge: a raspberry and pistachio tart. She was four years old when I tested this flavor blend. I had found a pistachio paste in a delicatessen while we were walking one day. Impossible for me to let her sleep in the radius. After intense reflection, I decided to combine it with fresh raspberries. I made a pistachio shortcrust pastry that I topped with raspberries positioned on a layer of raspberry lime jam. That day, Mila decided that it was her favorite dessert in the whole universe.

 When she sees the pie, she waves her hands in all directions to show her excitement. She immediately gets up on her knees, wringing her neck the better to devour her with her gaze. I laugh, light-hearted.

 -And that’s it for my favorite girl! I said, placing a piece of pie on his plate.

 Mila shoves half the pastry in her mouth before answering me.

 -Of course I’m your favorite, you only have me!

 I only have her. What a glaring truth. For six years now, I’ve only had her. She’s right. But that kind of thinking doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. I may never have had parents, I may not know where I got that café-au-lait skin I passed on to her, I may never have known the security of a loving home but that doesn’t matter anymore. Not like before. Today I have my daughter, my pretty Mila, my ray of sunshine. We live in this tiny, somewhat run-down apartment and we are clearly not rolling in gold but she is my treasure. Love of my life. And yet, nothing had predestined me to become a father so young!

 I was a lost but silent teenager. I didn’t make waves, I used to make myself as transparent as possible. I wandered from foster family to foster family without ever being adopted. I’m not complaining, I didn’t fall badly. Those who greeted me have always been nice to me. Or at least, they offered me a roof, food and clothing. And I was content with that. How could you hope for better when the only person who was supposed to love you unconditionally never wanted you? I was born under X. This is how my life began. With no one to rave over my cradle. Jacques and Annie, my former tutors, told me for two years that it was better that way. That we do not make this choice without being in a serious situation. That she had probably saved me from a darker fate. And then, if she hadn’t abandoned me, I would never have known them. And I would have been deprived of their love, their strength and their benevolence. So maybe they’re basically right.

 A social worker enrolled me in a vocational high school when I was sixteen. It is thanks to her that I was placed with Jacques and Annie. It is also thanks to her that I met Bastien, my closest friend. We didn’t have much in common, but we became friends right away. Extravagant, always ready to party, he was nonetheless a responsible boy who listened to others. He had no business being in this underside stream and luckily for him, a few professors realized that. His hard work eventually paid off and he returned to a classical curriculum. The day I went back to school without him, I knew I wouldn’t stay in school for long. We haven’t lost sight of each other. We continued to see each other evenings and weekends. I squatted in his room and his old game console, he dragged me from party to party.

That’s how I met Ariane. I was seventeen and no future. That night, I drank too much. Her too. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, at least I don’t remember fantasizing about her for long hours. She was laughing hard. She moved a lot. Her eyes were blank and her smile was too big to be true. She sported tattooed arms and bleached hair. I don’t know why I brought it up. Today, I still wonder. The majority approaching, I knew that my hours were counted at Jacques and Annie. I knew I was going to lose the only family that ever loved me a bit. That I was going to find myself on the street, without studies or work. That night I was sad. Like every night of course, but a little more. So I drank as much as Ariane smoked. Our sorrows met and pushed us towards each other. We slept together but everything is fuzzy in my memories. The only thing I can never forget is her look when she told me she was pregnant four months later.