Honey, I’m Writing A Book
By Erika Prosper
Time alone was a premium, so I knew something was afoot when he declined a big event to take me out spontaneously. I had braced myself for something more mundane, yet serious, like a principal’s call he’d intercepted and needed to relay to me or a late-night Woot purchase that accidentally got us on the hook for 10 refurbished Roombas. This was not mundane. But it was serious.
We had already lived pretty publicly, but I had prided myself on keeping the boundaries around our tougher times, and around our son, pretty tight. I had also started to look forward to what was coming – Jonah’s senior year of high school, with its rituals and college searches, the 8-year-long, honey-do list I had been compiling, and of course, time to reestablish an intimacy with who we each were now. A book meant time spent in the past, time with others, time eaten by distraction. I was not happy.
“Why?” I asked in dismay. “Most people know about you already, and they can look up the rest online. I don’t see why this should be a priority.”
He looked at me with those crinkles around his eyes as a shy smile formed. “Nah,” he said. “They don’t really know me.”
I was confused. Countless articles, TV appearances, and even heckling posts would beg otherwise.
“See, I want most of this book to be about growing up not knowing what I wanted, or needed, and then finding it, and you, along the way. I don’t think that many people know these things about me – my insecurities and my personal failures – stuff that really prepared me for the Mayor’s seat. Maybe there’s a person out there in similar circumstances, and they should know their future holds unlimited directions.”
A million things went through both my heart and my mind at once. On one hand, I understood the logic, but on the other hand, I was seeing time being stolen. I was quiet for what seemed eternity, working out all the potential outcomes that were not favorable. It’s a habit since childhood. Assess, evaluate, iterate. But, no matter how much I ran the possibilities in my head, my heart kept returning to those crinkled eyes and the softness in their look, the innocent imploring.
“What are you planning to start with?” I asked, assuming his childhood.
“Sophia,” he said, almost in a whisper, as he looked me square in the eyes.
A knot formed in my throat. My stomach fluttered. I knew I had turned red.
“That’s not your story. That’s mine,” I whispered back.
“No,” he said with sternness. “She was my daughter, too.”
