I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that Presley had been a silent presence in my marriage. Her name was not to be spoken—I suspected that Marnie knew that part of me would always be Presley’s. And now Presley and I had a bond that I’d denied Marnie, and that connection was unbreakable.
Unlike my marriage.
I told my mom about Cilla this morning after Presley had gone home, and she’d cried so hard, she couldn’t speak. She gave the credit to God, reminding me of what she’d said yesterday—God would provide.
I wished I had that kind of faith, the kind that made you certain that things would just work out. But science dictated that there was a fifty-fifty shot that Priscilla would carry the genetic marker too, multiplying her chances of getting cancer to a number I couldn’t make peace with.
But Mom was right about one thing—what was done was done.
My guilt for being excited and grateful for the chance to be a father was heavy and deep. Because I might have sentenced her to a fate that would haunt me. It was almost too selfish to acknowledge. But it was there, a strong, steady pull toward a life I’d only imagined.
I didn’t know how I was supposed to leave at the end of the summer. I’d missed too much already, and to miss more felt wrong. But again, a point that Presley made was inherently true—all I’d ever wanted was to get out of here, but duty kept calling me home. And this was, in some ways, no different. There was no way to know if I’d be happy here, but that was never a guarantee. I might leave for Zambia—a place that had once fulfilled me like only a calling can do—and be miserable leaving my child who I barely knew behind.
Nothing about it was black and white, just indistinguishable shades of gray. The argument was cyclical, with one answer running into another question, round and round again. It was too new to decide one way or another, so I told myself what I’d been telling myself since this morning.
We’ll see.
I didn’t have to decide. Not yet.
I had someone to meet first.
A few minutes later, I pulled down the winding, sun-dappled driveway to the Blum’s bee farm. The farm had been here even longer than my family had been peddling Tex Mex. My great grandmother and her sisters had been a part of the original Chili Queens, selling chile con carne and tamales in El Mercado in San Antonio in the early 1900s. Abuela loved to tell stories about how one sister would stand out front and sing while another played guitar and the rest cooked and served. Abuela and her cousins would run around the market and play all day, which went on until the Chili Queens started opening restaurants. Rather than compete, Bisabuela moved with her family here, to Lindenbach, and opened up Abuelita’s.
It was Abuela who’d thought to start production on our family’s salsa, tomatillo, and carne sauce, which spread to include tortillas, chips, and jarred queso, eventually becoming a staple in Texas grocery stores, thanks to a fortuitous contract with HEB.
The Blum farm had been in operation since long before that. In the 1800s, they traveled by wagon to neighboring cities to tout their honey and flowers from their fields, and about the time Abuelita’s was founded, the Blums decided to open up production too. They had a small canning operation on their property, as well as several acres of flower fields to feed their bees. Flowers that supplied several florists in the area.
I’d been here plenty of times over the years, but this time, the sprawling ranch intimidated me in a way I hadn’t expected. Inside of that house was my child. When I waked through that door, I’d be somebody’s daddy.
With that terrifying thought, I pulled to a stop in front of the house. Closed my eyes. Steadied my breath. Found the still, quiet place in the center of my chest.
And when I opened my eyes, Presley and Priscilla were already there, standing on the porch.
My throat slammed shut. I reached for the handle and opened the door with my eyes on the little girl by Presley’s side. When she bounced on the toes of sparkly flats, her dress opened and closed like a jellyfish.
“He’s here, Mama!” she practically screamed.
A laugh found its way out of me as numb legs carried me toward them.
Presley smiled and held her hand, watching me with a strange mixture of relief and fear on her face. Priscilla tried to bolt in my direction, but Presley hung onto her hand to give me that one last second I didn’t know I needed. When I reached the steps to the patio, Priscilla’s excitement melted into shyness, her cheeks flushing as she scooted closer to Presley, her chin down. She laid her cheek against her mother’s hip.
I crouched on shaky knees to get eye-level with her.
Priscilla didn’t say anything.
“Cilla, this is Sebastian,” Presley said, kneeling. She cast me an encouraging look.
I stuck out my hand, not knowing what else to do. “Hi, Priscilla.”
She glanced at my hand, then met my eyes. “You’re my daddy?”
The kick in my chest stole my breath. But I kept on my smile and nodded. “You’re my daughter.”
“I’m your Cilla.”
I chuckled, and my chest that’d just been empty simmered with warmth. I took my hand back. “You are.”
“Mama said I have another Nonnie.”
“You do, but I think she’ll want you to call her Abuela.”
“Abuela.” She tested the word. “Mama said you make tacos.”
Presley and I shared a smile. “That’s true. See, my abuela has a restaurant, so she makes all kinds of things.”
“I like tacos.”
“Me too. Crispy or soft?”
Her nose wrinkled. “Crunchy ones break, and I get mad.”
“Good point.”
“Can we go get tacos?”
“Maybe another day, bug,” Presley answered. “Want to go inside? You can get your book you wanted to show Sebastian.”
Priscilla beamed and took off for the front door. “Pete the Cat! Pete the Caaaat!” She paused in the threshold with the screen door against her hand. “Come on, Daddy!”
I didn’t quite understand how I could feel both like I’d been punched in the stomach and shown some sort of secret to the universe. I swallowed. Smiled. Nodded, even though she was already gone.
Presley watched me as we stood, and I climbed the steps. When I reached the patio, she took my hand and looked up at me with concern and curiosity on her face.
“Are you okay?”
“I have no idea.”
“Welcome to parenting,” she joked. But her smile faded. “Do you … do you want to be alone with her?”
“God, no. I need a spotter, Pres. Don’t ditch me now.”
When she laughed, I made the mistake of looking down at her. I stopped myself from kissing her at the last second. Because this was going to be confusing enough for Priscilla without her catching us kissing.
“Mooooommy,” her voice sang through the screen door as she approached. “Daaaaaaddy!”
I wondered briefly how many times I’d have to hear that before it quit knocking the wind out of me.
“Coming,” Presley said, letting go of my hand to make for the door.
Priscilla met us halfway with a book in her hand featuring a blue cat in a pair of Converse.
“Here.” She shoved the book at me, then took my hand in one of hers and Presley’s in the other, and dragged us toward the courtyard in the middle of the house.