I did not scream at him but simply motioned for him to come closer to me.
We spent two hours sitting side-by-side on the front porch steps. He explained everything to me. He spoke about how they had relocated to another state altogether. Jennifer had taken a job working at a restaurant until her pregnancy reached eight months. She would speak of the “blue room” at our home and how much she longed for my pancakes. He informed me about the hospital and how things happened so quickly that even the doctors could not respond in time.
When I met his eyes, I did not see a murderer, but rather a boy who had lost the woman he loved and was doing all he could to honor her last wish.
“Your daughter is safe,” I reassured him. “And you no longer need to fear for Paul. It is over.”
I spent most of the time accepting the reality that Jennifer was truly gone. No longer was there a sense of uncertainty, but only an overwhelming sense of loss that was both painful yet strangely peaceful. The house no longer felt like a waiting room.
That night, after Andy had gone to stay at a motel (I had to pay for it; he hadn’t had even a cent), I entered Jennifer’s room. After five years, for the first time ever, I decided to open the window, letting the fresh air into the room. I moved the books and cleared the top of the dresser for a bottle warmer and some baby wipes.
Taking the blue denim jacket off the kitchen table, I carried it to her room and gently put it down there. No longer did it have the faint vanilla scent, which reminded me of her favorite perfume. It was just baby powder and old clothes.
Jennifer didn’t return home as I had always imagined over five long years of waiting. There were no apologies and tearful explanations; there was no “I’m sorry I left.” However, standing in the darkness of the room and listening to the breathing in the next room, I understood that she managed to send me what really mattered to me back home.
After eighteen hundred sleepless nights, for the first time ever, I fell asleep, having stopped waiting for the doorbell.
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Bored Daddy
Love and Peace
