#breaking branches

     The phone had rung hundreds of times over the last six months. The first month, Timothée called her twice a day, every morning and every night. On weekends he called more frequently, drinking his days away, leaving embarrassingly long messages. He declared his love, shared his vision for their future, talked about what he wanted to name their kids and when he thought they’d get married. He described the property in France that he wanted to buy, did she know he had been looking? He detailed how he wanted to continue to go back to Crema for the summer, maybe buy a villa there too, and split summers between the two locations. He wanted their kids to learn French and Italian, he wanted her to learn too. He wanted to wear a paisley suit, or maybe velvet, for their wedding. Their wedding, he had already planned, and wouldn’t it be romantic if it was over three days in their new château?

    He became more desperate as the days turned into weeks, which turned into months. On one particular evening, his anger overcame him as he yelled into the receiver about her belongings and their house. What the fuck did she want to do? Did she fucking plan on ever coming back for her clothes? Did she expect him to fucking ship them from their house to wherever the hell she was? And, where was she? Where the fuck was she? Why was she doing this to him? To their life? Why the fuck couldn’t she get over it and come home? Didn’t she realize how much he needed her? Why wouldn’t she just talk to him?

    This had been the final straw. He had awoken to find a new folder had been shared with him. He opened it and was confronted with what he had become. She had saved his voicemails, his drunken assaults and languid descriptions of their life. She had kept his sobs, his deepest secrets, his desires. Here they were for him to relive. At the end was a memo he hadn’t recorded, a message from her, telling him the days she would be coming over to pack her belongings and detailing the furniture in the house that she wanted. She didn’t care where he went, but for those three days, he couldn’t be there. She told him to sell the house, she’d take her share of the profits, and if he decided he didn’t want to move, he needed to buy her out.

    The cracks deepened. The sorrow became overwhelming. The darkness was everywhere. Despite her best attempts, her jovial personality and excitement at preparing for the baby, Florence was at a loss. She didn’t know how to make him feel better. She didn’t know how to dissuade the guilt she felt at playing a part in their demise.

    After six months and one week, Florence had gone into labor. They decided to keep it low key, which is why on a Saturday a month after his daughter’s arrival, he had called her to ask if she would come by and meet his new daughter. He had left it open ended, a few friends stopping by to meet her, no big deal, and maybe could they talk? She had said she would stop by. After seven months, she still hadn’t spoken to him about why she left.

    Florence had brought the baby over to get acquainted with Timothée’s home, since she would be spending half her time with him. Tim was excited to have his daughter in his house, instead of staying at Florence’s a few nights a week to take care of her. He recognized that they would need to find a solution until she stopped nursing, and he was more than happy to spend the night, often taking all the night shifts so Florence could sleep. But he wanted his daughter in his house, and he wanted to share his daughter with his love, even if they hadn’t spoken in seven months. She was still his love, his future, wasn’t she?

    If he was honest with himself, Timothée expected her to cancel. But there she is, on his doorstep.

    “Hi,” She says, holding the gift box tightly in her hands.

    “Hi love,” He says, smiling at her. “You look, gorgeous.”

    “Don’t,” She says.

    She had tried to prepare for this, for being in her house when it was no longer hers. Timothée wasn’t making a move until they had spoken. Why would he sell their house, the house that they had built and let their love blossom in? She couldn’t tell if he loved it because it was theirs, and in his mind, he still thought there was a chance they would get back together, or because he really liked the modern home. The fact that he hadn’t bought her out or moved to sell it both infuriated her and reminded her why she would always love him: sentimentality.

    She stands at the threshold, peering in. The memory of picking out the tiles in the entry way and the stain of the hardwood floors cascaded over her. She had insisted on the herringbone pattern, which made the stairs look like a maze of wood grains. Timothée had just looked at her, smiling and saying, “as you wish”. She hadn’t imagined when they’d hung their Christmas photos leading towards the living room, that she’d been on the outside, wondering how long he’d keep them up and when he took them down, would he tell her? What would he do with the framed images when he realized they no longer had a future? Would he keep them up, despite it no longer being a home, but to show his daughter what once lived in this place? Or would he discard it to create something new for his life with his child?

    “We’re in the living room,” Timothée steps aside and lets her walk in. She kicks her shoes off and pads softly towards the voices and baby coos.

    “You came!” Florence calls, standing up to meet her. “I’m so happy to see you.”

    She meets Florence’ enthusiasm and hugs her. Florence had wanted to meet with her at various points in the pregnancy. She wanted to talk with her, try to get her to understand what her having Timothée’s baby meant, but she didn’t budge. She would only see Florence in group settings, and even then, she stayed away. Which is why Florence is so thrilled when she walks into the living room.

    “You look amazing! How are you feeling?” She sits on her couch, the one she spent weeks researching, picking patterns, comparing quality of fabrics, before insisting on this one. She hadn’t expected Timothée to change their home, but it was almost worse sitting in it, everything where she left it. He had bought similar items as placeholders for the ones she had taken, his unwillingness to admit that the items weren’t coming back evident in their lesser replacements.

    “I’m doing well, really well. Did you bring a gift? You didn’t have to!” Florence says, reaching for the present.

    “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” She hands the box to Florence, who proceeds to open it quickly.

    “Oh my god, this is so cute!” Florence calls, taking in the puzzle she’d picked out.

    “You know, for when she’s a little older and is playing. I remember my name puzzle from childhood, I always loved it,” She says smiling.

    Timothée can feel his heart aching. Of course, she picked a thoughtful, caring gift for his daughter. Of course, even in this challenging situation, she chose to take the high road.

    “Well, speaking of, this is Margot,” Florence says, picking up her daughter from the bassinet to the right of the couch. Placing her delicately in her friends’ arms, Florence sits.

    She smiles and cradles Margot in her arms. She can feel the tears as they begin to form and wills herself to not let them fall. She has Timothée’s eyes, and enough curly hair to match her father. Her olive skin and delicate features resemble her mother. She’s beautiful.

    Moments pass before she realizes she’s staring, unmoving, unspeaking.

    “She already loves you,” Timothée says, coming over and sitting next to her on the couch.

    “She’s really beautiful,” She says, handing her back to Florence. Silence falls as Margot coos. “Um, I can’t stay long, just wanted to stop by,” she says standing.

    “Nonsense, stay for a drink!” Florence says, positioning herself to nurse baby Margot.

    “No, I can’t, thank you though, for inviting me,” she quickly hugs Florence and says bye to Margot. She walks swiftly to the foyer and slips her shoes on before he’s grabbing her wrist.

    “Don’t go,” Timothée says, grip tightening on her skin.

    “I have other plans, can’t cancel,” She says, free hand moving to wipe a stray tear.

    “Talk to me, you haven’t spoken to me in seven months, please,” He says.

    “Well you’ve done enough for the both of us,” She opens the front door and starts walking down the driveway.

    “I’m sorry, I don’t know how else to say it, I’m sorry,” He grabs her wrist again in an attempt to turn her around.

    “Stop apologizing.” She says, tugging her arm out of his grasp. “Just, stop.”

    “Why can’t we talk about this? Why can’t we share in this? I need you; I love you. I know you’re mad at me, I know you’re upset but I’ve been racking my brain for seven months trying to figure out why you can’t handle this. You are my rock; you are my fucking harbor. We have a life together! I need you; I need you,” He says, the crack in his voice giving way to the tears spilling down his cheeks.

    “I can’t do this,” She says, voice wavering

    “Why the fuck not?” He calls.

    “Because! Because Timothée,” She yells, venom in her throat. “This is supposed to be me. This is supposed to be my life. This is the life you promised me.” She tries to inhale through her sob. “I know you need me. I know it’s been a difficult seven months. But this was supposed to be us, it was supposed to be our baby in our house. You and me.”

    “I’m sorry, I know, I know we had plans I know, but, she’s my daughter and I can’t change what’s happened with -”

    “You don’t fucking get it, Timothée,” She cuts him off.

    “What don’t I get? What don’t I understand? I have been trying to understand why you left for months! I keep coming up short. Why would you walk out on us? Why would you abandon me and our dreams? What possib-

    “She made you a father,” She gasps as the words tumble out. She pauses, trying to inhale and regain any sense of composure. “Florence gave you a child. She did! No matter what I do, I will always…”

    “I-I,” He stumbles, realization washing over him as his body gives way to another round of sobs.

    “I will never be able to… my entire life, my life with you … our life … is gone, Timothée. Sell the house, buy the villa in Crema, raise your daughter…” She throws her hands up and inhales abruptly, “This was supposed to be ours.”

    She darts into her car and quickly pulls out of the driveway. She doesn’t stop as he falls to his knees. She doesn’t stop as she drives away from the house and the life they shared. He doesn’t stop calling after her, even after his knees hit the concrete, the snot and tears mixing on his tongue as he tries to will her back.