Rosalie was our miracle child.
Mom and Dad weren’t trying and, all of a sudden, the news came that she was expecting. Mom, being the peachy doll she is, chose not to distract Lena from her wedding planning for an uncertainty that could cold her feet. She and Sean were made for each other.
After a long day of emptying their wallets and hearts for Lena, Mom and Dad would come home and hold hands on the couch, talk to her ballooned tummy when it wasn’t hiding under black and coats, and pray for a miracle. Ma was in her late forties and feared there was no hope, insisting that her body could no longer birth, that she was no home. It hurt me deeply to hear such words from my mother the optimist.
I’ve never been the religious type, but I gave praying a try.
The wedding was glorious, a rustic aesthetic behind the walls of a monstrous barn.
During the dancing, from across the floor, like something straight out of a film, the photographer caught my eye just before he turned to snap a picture of me and cousin Jeb enjoying our drinks.
It must have been the wine that carried my sorry ass over to him.
He complimented how coherent I was in being so tipsy and, by the end of the night, we shared a smoke and exchanged names and numbers. Connor, a not-so distant area code. It didn’t take much convincing that he would be the love of my life.
A week after the wedding, Connor and I were in the midst of a call when Dad stuttered into the living room, Mom grimacing in his hold. She was in labor.
Hours later, Rosalie was born. Rosie for short. With those cheeks, the name suited her. She was cuter than cute. I kissed blond curls crowning her head and stroked her chubby cheeks. The tiny stubs for fingers and rolls on her hands melted my heart. But what melted me most is when I held my hand in hers, she cried when we let go and calmed when I held on again.
When Lena met her, it couldn’t have been a sweeter surprise. And Connor didn’t want to leave her be.
The next three years shaped our lives into bliss. I landed a stable job as a secretary in a high-class accounting firm and a simple house for the fiancé and me just down the road from my folks and Rosie, so we saw them anytime we wanted. And I always wanted to see my little sister.
Lena, being the ever-supportive big sibling she is, didn’t mind me “borrowing” her ideas for Connor’s and my wedding. I could only dream of being to Rosie what Lena had been to me my entire life while she was away starting anew with Sean and a baby of their own (a Golden Retriever pup) in a delightful cabin surrounded by Great Lakes.
Life was a movie with exceptional cinematography — I started to see the color and beauty in everything.
It all happened before the new year.
Connor planned to photograph a wedding between a sixteen year old girl and a twenty-five year old man. I was astounded by his swift agreement to support such an inappropriate relationship. Something felt unsafe.
As much as I loved my parents, they didn’t protect me like they could’ve. Imagining Rosie in my shoes sickened me. I couldn’t let that happen. And there was no way my soon-to-be husband would support such a travesty of wedlock. So I told Connor if he went through with the wedding, I would leave him.
I stuck to my word and moved back in with Mom and Dad. They were more head over heels than I was for the man and kept in contact.
On their anniversary, Mom and Dad left town for a few days and hired a babysitter for my absence.
I came home to find Connor sitting on the living room couch smoking a cigarette.
“Get out.”
He was still and silent, eyes small and unmoving.
“No. I’m here for Rosie.” That name out of his mouth sounded like the devil’s tongue.
“I don’t care why you’re here, get out of my house.”
Rosalie stumbled into the room in a soiled diaper, wailing. She reached out for Connor and tugged at his sleeve. Rage boiled in me, juicing my insides.
I grabbed Rosalie and she extended her arms, balling and unfolding her tiny hands, reaching out for Connor.
“You are not welcome here.”
“Your parents invited me.” I suppressed my rage as best I could. “Well,” he grunted, rising to his feet and towering above us, “you’re home, so I’ll see myself out.” He flashed an ugly smile before doing just as promised.
Rosalie’s diaper was a mess and jarred me into a panic attack when I saw the blood. I nearly vomited catching sight of the drenched sheets on her little race car bed.
I barely gathered myself enough to clean her and sing her to sleep, calling the police as calmly as I could once she was sound and curled in my blankets. Then, I alerted Mom and Dad. They broke down over the phone. But I soon came to find there was no heartbreak — only rejoicing.
In my search for a notebook to plan it all out, I found a photographic in Dad’s nook. Pictured was a child bride holding her husband’s hand. She was no older than my girl. And on the back, “For Rosalie,” in cursive. Mom’s penmanship.
I keep replaying it over and over again.
I am going to kill Connor, I am going to kill my family, and I am taking my girl with me. Far, far away. Rosalie is my lifeblood.
Pray for me.