Part 2: The Garden Gate

On Saturday I arrived at the garden with a paper cup of coffee and no plan better than asking Lily whether she was willing to speak. Ada had advised me not to bring a gift. “You don't know the child,” she said. “Let her mother decide what is welcome.”

At the gate, a volunteer handed me a name sticker. I wrote Owen and pressed it onto my jacket. I did not include my company name. The foundation had helped pay for the garden's new rainwater system, but dozens of people had built the beds, planted the seeds, and kept the project alive before I had heard of it.

Lily was arranging paper cups on a table. She saw me before I reached her and set the stack down.

“Owen.”

“Hello, Lily.”

Her expression was guarded. I couldn't blame her. I asked whether there was somewhere we could talk without interrupting the event. She glanced toward a woman painting children's faces under a canopy.

“Mae can watch Poppy for five minutes,” she said. “We can stand by the tool shed.”

She did not invite me to meet the child. I followed her past a bed of early lettuce and waited while a group of volunteers carried compost through the gate.

“I saw a photograph in the report,” I said. “Poppy is almost two.”

“Yes.”

“I don't want to make assumptions. Is there a possibility I'm her father?”

Lily looked at the ground and then at me. “Yes.”

The answer was simple. The space around it seemed enormous.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I tried.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and showed me an old email. It had been sent to my company address shortly after she discovered she was pregnant. The message asked if we could talk privately. There was no mention of a child in the subject line.

I recognized the date. My company had changed its email system during a security incident. Thousands of messages had been held for review. I had never seen this one.

“I wrote again,” she said. “An assistant replied that you were unavailable and gave me a general office number. When I called, I was told you'd be traveling for several weeks. After that, my mother became ill. I decided I could manage without chasing someone who had already told me he didn't want a future with me.”

I wanted to argue that I had never meant to reject a child. But the words I had used were exactly the words she remembered. No explanation could make them kinder.

“I'm sorry I didn't see your message,” I said. “I'm also sorry for what I said before you left.”

She nodded without offering forgiveness.

“If you're willing,” I continued, “we can confirm whether I'm her father through the proper process. I won't ask you to decide anything else today.”

Lily folded her arms against the breeze. “I'll speak with my attorney. Poppy has a routine, and I won't have it interrupted because you've suddenly become curious.”

“That's fair.”

A little voice called “Mama!” from the canopy. Lily turned at once. Poppy was holding a paper flower, its green ribbon tied in a crooked bow.

I stepped back so Lily could go to her. She didn't look back until she reached the table. Then she raised one hand, not quite a wave, and returned to her daughter.