to be changed. He was the one who knew how to hold her just right, rocking her to sleep in his arms. Tommy made everything seem effortless. When I tried, she would scream and scream until her face turned red, as if I were a stranger. Which I guess I was.
I blamed myself for going back to work a few weeks before my maternity leave was up. I’d been itching to go back, not because I didn’t love being with CeCe, but because I was desperate to feel like me again. And I felt more like myself when I was surrounded by deadlines and creative briefs than dirty diapers and baby talk.
By the time she grew up into an adorable little person with opinions and stories and a personality all her own, I had already become the third wheel of our family. I never stopped trying, though.
I almost always called to say “sweet dreams” back when Tommy still tucked her in at night, and as she got older I made an effort to read the same books and listen to the same music so we’d have something real to talk about, to bond over. It didn’t always work, but at least she saw me trying. I hope she noticed that.
It was more than my mother did—and she didn’t even have a good excuse. She stopped working when I was born and still didn’t have time for me. Of course, she had more than enough time for all the committees she chaired, the charity balls she planned, and her six-year streak as the president of the PTA. The irony isn’t lost on me. Neither is the fact that my dad worked even longer hours than I do now, yet he never felt the need to justify his time.
Eventually, I stopped craving my parents’ time and attention. I was proud of my independence, the fact that I didn’t need anyone else. Except there was someone who needed me.
I can’t believe I didn’t realize before that I was repeating the same mistakes my parents made with me. I told myself CeCe was fine because she had Tommy—he was better than both of my parents combined. And all of him was better than half of me.
What in the world are we going to do without him?
I look down at Tommy, his chest moving up and down in haggard breaths that make it seem like even sleeping is too strenuous. The glowing numbers of the clock on his nightstand catch my eye as the number changes to 11:11. For the first time since all of this happened, my wish isn’t for Tommy. It’s for CeCe. That somehow I can find a way to be enough for her.
Tommy makes a noise and I hold my breath. A second later his breathing is back to normal. This new normal, at least. I sigh and lie back down, willing myself to sleep. It’s been harder and harder to come by lately. It seems the more Tommy sleeps, the more awake I get. Like my body is aware that the clock on our time together is running out, and I don’t want to miss a single minute.
I try to soothe my mind by thinking about the good times. There are so many of them, it’s hard to choose just one. Flipping through the memories like pictures in an old photo album, I stop at a mental image of Tommy and CeCe playing together on the beach. She must have been five or six, squealing as Tommy chased her. Running through the shallow waves, she splashed him before running back to the folding chair where I was holding down the fort.
“Come play, Mommy!” I remember her saying.
“In a minute,” I told her, reaching for my cell phone instead of her outstretched hand. We were in the middle of a big new business pitch at work—it was a big deal, I told Tommy.
He probably told me that this, playing on the beach with our daughter, was an even bigger deal, but I wouldn’t have listened. I was so focused on proving my boss wrong, showing him that Becky and I, a team of two women, could be just as smart, creative, and clever as any of the guys he threw on the brief.
I was so hyperfocused that I don’t think I realized I was chasing success at the price of being present for my daughter’s childhood. How many of her memories am I absent in, or just out of reach? God,