Chapter 2: BEFORE VANESSA

 

To understand why Vanessa’s threat scared me, you have to understand what my life with my father had been like before she entered it.

 

My mother died when I was seven.

 

I do not remember every detail of the weeks afterward, but I remember my father making pancakes at midnight because neither of us could sleep.

I remember him sitting on the kitchen floor with instructions for a hair-braiding kit spread around him because he wanted to learn how to do my hair for school.

I remember hearing him cry once in the laundry room and pretending I had not.

 

He never tried to become two parents.

 

He just tried to be my dad.

 

That was enough.

 

We lived in a two-story house outside Richmond, Virginia, in a neighborhood with tall maple trees and narrow sidewalks.

Dad owned a small construction company with his best friend, Marcus.

He left early most mornings, but whenever possible he came home for dinner.

 

Friday was ours.

 

Pizza, a movie, and usually a ridiculous amount of ice cream.

 

Even when work became busy, he protected Friday nights as if they were written into a legal contract.

 

When I was ten, I asked whether he would ever get married again.

 

He nearly choked on his pizza.

 

“I don’t know,” he said.

 

“Would you?”

 

“If I met the right person.”

 

“What does right mean?”

 

He thought for a while.

 

“Someone kind.”

 

“That’s it?”

 

“That covers more than people think.”

 

I remembered that conversation later.

 

At the time, I did not.

 

Vanessa appeared in our lives when I was eleven.

 

Dad met her at a charity fundraising dinner for a children’s hospital.

She worked in event planning and had been hired by one of the sponsors.

According to Dad, she laughed at one of his terrible jokes, which immediately made him suspicious of her judgment.

 

The first time I met her, she came to our house carrying cupcakes.

 

Not fancy cupcakes from a bakery.

 

She said she had baked them herself.

 

Chocolate for Dad.

 

Vanilla with blue frosting for me because Dad had told her blue was my favorite color.

 

I liked her immediately.

 

That is difficult for me to admit, even now.

 

People sometimes expect betrayal to come with warning music.

 

It does not.

 

Sometimes betrayal brings cupcakes.

 

Vanessa sat at our kitchen table and asked about school without sounding as if she were interviewing me.

She listened when I talked about my science fair project.

She complimented the ridiculous clay volcano I had made in fourth grade that Dad still kept on a bookshelf.

 

When she left, I told him, “She’s nice.”

 

He tried not to smile too much.

 

“You think?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“Do you like her?”

 

“A little.”

 

“You cleaned the garage before she came.”

 

“That proves nothing.”

 

“You never clean the garage.”

 

He laughed.

 

For the next several months, Vanessa seemed to fit naturally into our lives.

 

She came to Friday pizza night sometimes but not every week.

 

She attended one of my soccer games and cheered so loudly that I became embarrassed.

 

She remembered my birthday.

 

She bought Dad a proper set of kitchen knives because she said watching him cut vegetables with one dull knife was “an act of violence against dinner.”

 

I laughed at that too.

 

The first change was small.

 

So small I almost feel foolish mentioning it.

 

One Friday, Vanessa arrived before I got home from a friend’s house.

 

When I walked into the living room, she and Dad were watching a movie.

 

Our movie.

 

It was an old comedy Dad and I had watched every year since Mom died.

 

Dad paused it.

 

“Hey, Peanut.

We thought you were staying at Mia’s.”

 

“She had to go to her grandmother’s.”

 

Vanessa shifted on the couch.

 

“We’re only ten minutes in.”

 

Dad moved over.

 

“Come sit.”

 

I did.

 

Nothing terrible happened.

 

But for the first time, Friday night no longer felt like ours.

 

That became a pattern.

 

Not a dramatic one.

 

A quiet one.

 

Vanessa suggested restaurants where children were technically welcome but clearly not expected.

 

She planned weekend outings that happened to fall on days when I had soccer games.

 

She bought two concert tickets instead of three.

 

Each time there was a reasonable explanation.

 

The restaurant reservation had been hard to get.

 

The weekend was the only available date.

 

The concert had sold out.

 

Dad noticed sometimes.

 

When he did, he corrected it.

 

“We’ll go after Ellie’s game.”

 

“Let’s pick somewhere all three of us like.”

 

“If there are only two tickets, give them to someone else.”

 

Vanessa always agreed.

 

She never argued with him about me.

 

Not directly.

 

Instead, she became better at making me feel as if I were the one causing trouble.

 

If Dad changed a reservation for me, Vanessa smiled and said, “Of course.