Leah rests a palm on her belly as she wishes upon a shooting star: Tiny jellybean, may you have a sweet life, unlike the spice-filled bitterness of my own.
High above, Godmother hears and twirls her wand. A collection begins.
The first two smiles are a shared dessert; secrets between new parents who can’t stop grinning. The next smiles are popping candy; explosive celebrations from relatives compensating the absent grandfather-to-be and the grandmother long-passed, still missed. Leah’s bestie smiles from a thousand miles away; it’s sherbet fizzing down the phoneline. Gummy-bears and lollipops follow―delighted colleagues and professionals easing anxiety. Months flow on: screaming smiles and joyous ones, crying smiles and kissing ones; all spun into cotton-candy and set in a jar.
The final weeks arrive. Godmother still waits for that most important smile: hard-won from the truest love, strong enough to overcome life’s bitterness. She kneads her magic, baking a wish into a gingerbread star as it rises.
“Unff!” cries Leah, struggling within her bedsheets as pain grabs her back. She squeezes her eyes. It’s two weeks too early. Her fingers seek where Tom should be, except he’s gone interstate for work at her insistence.
She wishes Tom hadn’t listened.
The pain ebbs; maybe it’s okay.
Warmth floods her legs, her belly pinches. Leah curls over.
It’s not okay, it’s happening. Panting, she snatches the phone.
Jean’s voicemail chirps. Stella deadpans a message. Dave’s rings non-stop.
She hovers over one more name―Dad. Her breath tastes as sour as the lost years between them. She drops the phone, certain she’s overreacting.
Warm gingerbread floats in on a scent, the breeze ruffling curtains back. Moonlight shines on wet sheets, tinged pinkish-red.
Desperate, she makes the call.
“Hello?” comes the sleep-roughened voice.
“Dad? I don’t want to bother…”
“I’ll be there.” The line cuts.
He’s an hour away—plenty of time for breathing exercises. She’s just gotten into dry clothes when an engine revs up her driveway.
“Leah?” He bangs on the window.
It’s been five minutes.
She waddles over and opens the door. The woody scent of clove drifts in. “How…?”
“Let’s go.” He bundles her into his car and they’re on the road.
She grips the door-handle, a subconscious reaction to her past. Her belly quietens. The rattling of the old sedan fills the air. It’s not enough. Heavy silence cloys like pungent licorice between their seats. “That was fast.” She feels obligated to fill the space.
“I’m staying nearby for a few days.” He clears his peppery throat. “I told Tom to stay.”
“Oh.” They talked.
“You should’ve told me.”
Once upon a time, she’d said anything to bridge the chasm between them. “You never hear me,” she mutters to her window.
The car surges, powered by tension. “Of course, I do.”
She snorts. “Really? Since mum died, you can’t even look at me!” Leah had spent years waiting for him. Her father had lost her mother. Leah had lost both.
Her eyes track the white markings on the streets. They say more than her father’s silence.
“Don’t be silly.”
“Look at me then,” she says.
He doesn’t. “I’m driving,” he says at last, eyes glued to the empty streets.
She blinks wetness away and turns back to the darkness. Neat lawns, messy lawns, ivy-covered walls, white-picket fences—each exterior a story about their owners. If only fathers were as easy to read.
A jab ripples through her middle. She groans.
He glances over for the first time since packing her like luggage, into the car. “You okay?”
Is he asking for Tom’s sake or hers? She strokes her belly and the life within. “She doesn’t know any better.” She times her words to her breathing. “I’ll love her, no matter what she does.”
Her father’s mouth opens, pinches close. He opens it again. Nothing.
Burnt sugar fills her nostrils—acrid and sweet. She snuffs out air to clear it. “I don’t blame you,” she blurts. “I hate me too, for taking her away.” Eyes wide, she thinks to unsay the words she’s always known but never voiced. But like burnt sugar, it can’t be undone.
Streetlights flash across them, the engine growls, the car rattles on.
“It’s not your fault.” His voice is molasses-thick. “I was supposed to be there that day.”
She’s only heard the whispers—five-year-old Leah wriggled out of the baby-seat and started raging. Her mother had lost control of the car. That was how the story went.
He swallows. “We were supposed to take you to the doctor together. You were so unwell and grizzly. But I got called back to work.” His knuckles are white against the wheel. “I should’ve been driving. She’s gone,” he swallows again, “because of me.”
Leah stares.
“Oh, Dad.” So much of what she’d thought changes in that moment. Her aching belly softens like gingerbread dough. Breathing becomes easier. “Pull over.”
“You need to get to the hospital.”
“This is important. Please.”
He stops onto the curbside, still staring out the windscreen.
“I thought you hated me,” she whispers.
“No, Sweetheart.” The streetlights reflect too brightly against his bottom lashes. “It’s you who hates me, and you have every right to.”
“I don’t, Dad.” Her own eyes fill. “We couldn’t have known. I could’ve lost you both.” She reaches over the gulf. For the first time in a long while, she feels his warmth under her palm. “But I didn’t lose you. You’re here.” She brings his hand to her belly. “We need you.”
The baby kicks.
He stares at his hands, his grandchild, tears spill. Leah throws her arms around him and their missing years. He pats cautiously.
“We’re not going to break, Dad,” she laughs.
He chuckles and hugs them tight. Gingery hints waft over them, spicy and sweet. He gives a toffee-golden smile so dazzling it will carry all troubles away.
A newborn arrives and Godmother releases her cotton-candy jar. Leah’s baby takes her first breath and inhales a lifetime of golden sweetness.
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