Forgive Me, I Never Told You

It is nights like these when the weight of my decision becomes evident. When my only intent was to join my daughter on the couch where she lies comfortably sprawled out. Mindlessly watching 90s rom-coms, eating day-old pizza, waiting for her mother’s company. But instead, I stop just short of her, letting my body lean against the door frame as if too heavy to support myself alone. Frozen in time while I study her lanky body, thick curly hair, slightly narrowed eyes, and chocolate brown skin. The parts of her that show little resemblance to me. Instead, they reflect the man I met 11 years ago. A man whose thumbs nervously tapped his knees while trying to avoid eye contact with the girl parallel to him. A man who had a sense of style and hygiene, which was rare for those in hostels. A man who caused my every movement to flutter. Suddenly, breathing became foreign, and my journal had three new sentences of complete gibberish. All in attempts to remain calm and appear unphased. A man I proceeded to spend the latter half of my trip in Peru with, exploring the city. And eventually, exploring each other.

It is because of him that my little Lena stands out extra in this small southern town. He’s the half of her that causes people to ask where she is from. And without fail, every time she looks confused with furrowed brows. Like why is it so hard for strangers to believe she is from Albermarle, South Carolina? No one ever questions if her best friend Bailey is from these parts. They observe her blonde hair and assume she’s one of them. But not my Lena. My Lena will always be more like him than me…

Having been freshly 21 and entranced by the world of travel, I was perhaps naive. Easily swayed into finding the stranger across from me far more intriguing than I should have. Then again, I must give myself some grace, his eyes could have caught anyone’s attention. Even the front desk lady in the hostel shared a few overly enthusiastic laughs and a slight lean on the counter. Perhaps she too was taken with his scented cologne and laid-back style, effortlessly exuding ease. But when I finally mustered the courage to ask where he was from, his British accent wavered, as if caught off guard by my curiosity. That was the unique thing about this man, you would assume someone of his appearance would be far more expectant of conversation. But with every question I asked, it seemed he was shocked someone in the world found him enjoyable to unravel.

After having a few on-and-off days of grabbing dinners and late lunches, there was one in particular we spent alone. It was everything.

“Hello,” he said with a soft grin peeping through his well-maintained beard. “What are your plans today?”

I had just gotten myself changed into loose shorts and an oversized t-shirt, smelling fresh of sunscreen, “I was about to go into the historic downtown.”

“Want to catch the bus to the beach? It’s alright if not, but I was going to go if you cared to join.”

“That sounds great actually, let me change real fast.” And with a beating heart full of infatuation, I rummaged through my torn blue backpack in search of the bikini top that had nearly gone unused. But thankfully, something in me before I had left home sensed I would need one.

Our shoulders bumped together as we attempted to steady ourselves on the crowded bus. His dark and narrow eyes would look down at mine, which were round and widened. He was beautiful. This dynamic was foreign to me. All the boys in my life prior to him were friends. Like my persona was one of jokes and jesting, but with him, it felt romantic. Like when we got lunch at a sit-down restaurant, my mind raced as he sat across from me. But of course, I played it off by averting my gaze, staring at the menu instead.

“I love sushi.” His British accent made a smile nudge at my lips.

“Me too.”

And it was romantic in the way he would intentionally lean down as we walked to better hear me. Or slow his pace to match mine. The difference between his long strides and my rather short ones was prominent. But he never made me feel as though I had to change my pace to catch up.

Rocks lined the beachfront. Not jagged ones, but rather large pebbles. They were strange to me, but not to him. He told me about beaches in England, and how they were very similar. I spoke of the sand I would dig my toes into, sometimes worried a crab would get ahold of them. Our lives back home slowly revealed to be quite different. And our souls, even if intertwined for a moment, were on separate paths. Like intersecting lines that crossed once, but never again.

“You’re a Christian?” He observed while I removed my top to reveal an array of back tattoos. One of which is a dainty cross, off center to my spine.

“I am,” was all I could say, overthinking the complication of this topic. Faith, being extremely crucial in my life, shockingly had yet to come up. Admittedly though, it was because I speculated he did not share the same belief. He too was decorated in a variety of tattoos, many displaying hands and dragons. Curiosity did eventually strike though, “are you religious?”

He was sitting upright, shirt still on and elbows propped upon his knees, “I am Hindu.”

All I could manage to do was nod and smile. This was the reason it had yet to come up, because secretly I was fearful to know for sure. Because of this one little fact, everything changed in my heart. A sinking feeling, as if the past five days had been wasted giving a part of myself to a man who would never fully be able to comprehend it. And vice versa. I was never going to make him change. So I nodded and smiled.

After too many drinks, his smile laced with mine. Finally releasing the tension between us. His hands moved up and down my silhouette, no longer shy. Guilt did tug at my heart, guilt for indulging myself. But it was a very conscious decision to follow him to his room. A part of me wanted to rebel against God, simply because I was mad He had allowed me to meet a man I’d never be with. So, in a fit of anger, I let this man kiss me. Everywhere. And for the night, I abandoned a single core belief to have his softened gaze examine me longer. Two days later, he left to continue his travels to Columbia. With an intimate hug and kiss goodbye, that was it. All I had left was a written number, one he said to dial when I got home, and many fond memories. At least, that was all I believed I had at the time. Little did I know.

A million thoughts ran through my mind when his voice echoed from the other line. A month before my due date, it was the first call I had given. Immediately a rush of emotions hit me as the familiarity of a stranger spoke. The plan was to inform him of my decision to keep the child. My anger at God had fizzled out when I realized nothing I did would actually hurt God as much as it’d hurt me. Keeping Lena was the best decision I had ever made, and I knew that, but was getting her father involved wise? Or would the information ruin us both? A stranger becoming a partner out of obligation rather than choice. Out of necessity rather than love. But after a few seconds of silence, the last thought of mine before I put the phone away was, someday I hope he can forgive me for never knowing what I did wrong. Forgive me for the lies I would feed Lena, about his absence. Explaining to her that sometimes a mom and dad fall out of love and it was best if she lived with me instead of him. Best if she grew up being surrounded by girls who had pin-straight hair and round eyes like her mother. Best if she went to class and recited the pledge of allegiance, just as I had growing up. Best if she attended church to learn about Jesus rather than Karma.

And well I guess that's the irony. Because Jesus has already forgiven me, but my Karma is, can I forgive myself?