Chapter 12 - Orson Asked Me Why I Was Mad At Maeve For Loving Him
The question came six months later.
We were driving home from soccer.
No dramatic setup.
Orson was eating crackers in the back seat.
Then:
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Why were you mad at Maeve?”
My hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
“I was jealous.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
“Of her?”
“Yes.”
He thought about it.
“Because I hugged her?”
“Yes.”
“That’s weird.”
I laughed once.
“It was.”
“Did you think I liked her more than you?”
The question hit exactly where it needed to.
“Yes.”
“Did I?”
“I don’t know.”
He shrugged.
“I liked different stuff.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maeve knew bedtime.”
I almost smiled.
“Mom knows art.”
True.
“You know soccer.”
Fair.
“Uncle Peter knows fishing.”
He paused.
“People know different me.”
I had spent tens of thousands of dollars on therapy, lawyers, and experts.
My eight-year-old explained attachment better in six words.
People know different me.
I had wanted to own fatherhood as a central position.
Orson experienced relationships as different places where different parts of him were recognized.
Maeve had known the scared nighttime Orson.
Evelyn needed to relearn him.
I needed to stop assuming biology guaranteed access to every part.
We earn familiarity.
May you like
Even parents.
Especially parents.
