Eddie
Dina Jackson from Bundles of Love adoption agency is taking my news better than I expected. Especially given the fact that this is a private agency and she profits from people like me handing over my baby.
“I was told the father wanted no involvement with the child and would be waiving rights.” She hands me the cup of coffee I requested after practically being forced to accept something. “I’m surprised you knew how to find me.”
“It took some work.” And someone had to screw up. “But it seemed like the right thing to do, especially if things have gone forward already.”
“I’m not at liberty to give you specifics without the permission of the child’s mother,” she says, “but I’m happy to help answer your more general questions.”
An older dude appears in the doorway of her office. She waves him in when she sees him.
“Eddie, this is my good friend, Henry Brown.” Dina points to an open chair in the corner of her office, and the guy sits. “I’ve asked him to be here because Henry works in the family court system, and he can help you better understand your…rights.”
Not a fan of the way she said the word rights. I glance at Henry and then back at Dina. “Okay, so I never signed the waiver of right to notice.”
“Obviously,” she says, her lips forming a thin line.
“What is my next step?”
Henry clears his throat. “Is the child’s mother willing to recognize you as the father?”
I almost blurt out, Yes, why wouldn’t she? But then I remember the lawyers’ plan. “You mean officially? Like on paper?”
“Yes,” he says. “No one disputes parent names on birth certificates if both parties agree and are unmarried. We don’t do paternity tests on every child born in this country.”
My stomach sinks. “She probably won’t go along with it.” More like her wardens won’t let her.
“Then you need to file a petition to establish paternity now,” he explains. “When the child is born, a family court judge will order the mother to allow the test to be done.”
“And then I can—”
“Assuming you’re proven the father,” Dina interjects.
I restrain myself from glaring at her on Caroline’s behalf. She wouldn’t have said that if she were in the room. “Assuming I’m the father, then I can object to the adoption?”
Dina and Henry converse silently, and then Henry speaks up. “Establishing paternity and the right to object to adoption are two separate things.”
“But if it’s my kid, she can’t just let him get adopted,” I argue.
“In most states, New York included,” Henry says, “a biological connection with the child doesn’t necessarily give you the right to be named the father.”
I lift my hands in the air. “Well, then what the hell does? Because I’m ready to do it.”
“Unfortunately, it might be too late,” Dina says.
My whole body is frozen in fear. How could it be too late? The kid isn’t even born yet. I can’t respond, and both of them must realize this, because Henry explains further.
“For example, to establish paternity in an unborn child, the court might ask if you lived with the mother for at least six months prior to birth. If you showed support during the pregnancy—financially and emotionally.”
Both of them wait for me to answer these questions. I’ve turned to stone. Whether from defeat or deciding that these two are not my friends. “We aren’t allowed to see each other. Our parents decided that. And my family paid for all expenses, including the PI they hired to follow Caroline and make sure she didn’t bring her pregnant self anywhere near me.” I toss Dina a pointed look. “And I imagine they’re paying a hefty sum to your agency, through the Davenports, to make extra sure those records get sealed as tightly as possible.”
“That’s not necessary,” Dina says. “As of right now, no father will be listed anywhere in the records.”
“Is that what you’re really seeking?” Henry asks me. “The right to be placed on the birth certificate? Or are you seeking custody of the child?”
I hesitate, probably for too long. “Both.”
Dina Jackson opens her mouth, but Henry shakes his head. “If that’s your goal, file the paternity petition in conjunction with a custody petition.”
I nod, listening carefully now that he’s gone back to factual mode. “And then what?”
“You will be notified of the adoption hearing,” he says. “You’ll have the right to be heard by a judge in the family court system. But I will warn you, New York rules in the best interest of the child. If the judge decides placement with the adoptive family is best for the child, then there is no further action you can take.”
“Why would they do that?” I ask. “I mean, assuming I’m not a convict or a serial killer, I’m still the father. Plenty of dads are horrible, and those kids aren’t put up for adoption.” God, what would a family court judge say about my father?
“They could be if the child’s mother pursued it,” Henry explains.
“Look at it from a judge’s perspective,” Dina says, her voice syrupy sweet. “You’re how old, Eddie? Eighteen?” I nod. “It sounds like your family isn’t willing to provide you support in raising this child. Where will you live? Are you employed? Do you have health care? Do you have a plan for your child’s education and religious beliefs? Having you taken parenting classes? Infant CPR?”
One of my nannies taught me infant CPR when I was really young. I wanted to play with my sister’s dolls, and the nanny thought my parents would hate the idea, so she made it an educational activity.
“You think I’ll lose,” I say, my voice flat.
“Winning custody is almost always unlikely in these situations,” Henry says. “Additionally, it will take at least thirty days to get to trial. During that waiting time, the child will be placed in the temporary custody of the adoptive family, assuming they don’t back out as many do when fathers get involved in this manner. If there is no adoptive family and the mother isn’t able or willing to care for the child until the trial, he or she will be placed in state custody until a ruling happens.”
“You mean foster care?” I say.
Henry nods. “Correct.”
Several minutes later, I’m walking outside, just a few blocks from my apartment. I don’t remember much of what was said at the end of the meeting, just me promising that I would indeed be seeking a paternity suit very soon. After the foster care thing was dropped into the conversation, I couldn’t process much else. One tiny baby. Two very wealthy families who have the resources to raise a baby with the best care possible. And somehow, he might end up as a ward of the state for the first month of his life.
Because of me.
That’s the worst part of it. I could sign that waiver, and that would never happen. He would have a family and a home from the moment he’s born.
But he could with me too.
I’m so busy freaking out, I forget that I’m supposed to meet Finley for dinner. She sends me a text, and I must sound messed up in my reply, because she tells me to stay where I am. I walk a couple blocks to a nearby park and plop down on a bench.
“What happened?” Finley is standing over me now, her hair partially blocking her face, but I can see lines of worry.
A few weeks ago, I would have played it cool, tucked the stress and drama away. But it’s become easier every day, being honest with her. “I think I need a lawyer.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “That bad, huh?”
“And a house,” I add. “Definitely need a house. Plus an educational plan. And probably infant CPR again. I can’t remember if it’s two breaths and five compressions or one breath…”
“Okay, enough of this,” she says with a nod, and then she takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. “It’s after six, so no lawyer shopping tonight. Schools are closed, real estate agents are off duty… Let’s go do something normal.”
I sigh. “All this shit of mine is lacking in fun, isn’t it? Not what you signed up for when you joined my beer pong team.”
“If I’m being honest,” Finley says, dead serious, “I would have picked a more skilled partner if I had the choice.”
“So what you’re saying is”—I pull her against me so fast, she sucks in a breath—“you’re expecting me to be good at other things?”
She opens her mouth to reply, but I cut her off, kissing her in a way that I hope shows how much I’m with her on this “let’s take a break and be crazy for the night” plan.
There are too many people around. I have to put a stop to the kissing way too early. “Come on.” I step back and take her hand so we can start walking somewhere. Anywhere. “Let’s go do normal.”
Normal for me must mean giving her a good once-over. She’s wearing a short blue dress tonight. I lean closer, examining a white strap beneath her dress. “Is that a leotard? Have you been to dance class again?”
She laughs and lifts my chin to draw my eyes up. “Yes, I have. You caught me.”
“Five nights in a row?” I lift an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were training for something.”
“It’s research,” she says, but her cheeks turn pink, and her gaze drifts away from mine.
I decide to put those questions on hold for a while, right beside the lawyer and the CPR ones. I give Finley a little shove from behind, pushing her a few steps in front of me. “Walk ahead of me, and I’ll pretend to follow you. I know how you’re into that stuff.”
Two dudes in front of us turn around and give us this look like what the hell? Finley turns bright red, but she’s laughing. I sling an arm around her shoulder and steer us in a different direction. It doesn’t take more than a couple minutes, walking beside Fin, for my panic to subside, for me to feel better, a little less burdened. Complete distraction.
This stuff with Fin, it’s all new for me. I mean, I’ve kissed my fair share of girls, but I haven’t done any of this. Walking around aimlessly together, taking turns giving each other that sideways glance that says Is this real? Are you really with me? And then no matter how much you try to hide your feelings or play it cool, it’s not possible.
For the tiniest, briefest moment, I regret opening the custody battle can of worms, because I would love to text Caroline right now and explain this weird moment to her. I think she would get it. I think she would like Finley a lot.
We end up eating dinner from a taco stand and shopping for something called foot thongs—yeah, I know, right?—that Fin needed for a dance class.
Neither of us brings up my meeting at the agency until we’re walking back to our building, when I finally give her the brief summary of what was said.
“Does that mean you changed your mind?” she asks tentatively.
I wait for my brain to form a new answer, but it doesn’t, because I didn’t. “No.”