After the One-Night Stand

If you were to ask me to describe myself, I’d have to use the word ‘average’. It’s not false modesty; it’s just a fact. I’m an average man, of average height and an average build that’s softened around the middle as I’ve eased into my forties. I work as a general contractor, a job that provides an average income, which in turn affords me an average house in an average suburban neighborhood. My social life, if you can call it that, is decidedly average. A beer with some work buddies on a Friday, a nod to the neighbors over the fence on a Saturday.

Average, average, average.

My sex life, however, became anything but average about four years ago. That’s when it stopped completely. But that’s a story for later. First, you need to understand how I ended up here, in this quiet, average house, with a life that revolves around a person who is anything but.

I was adopted. My parents, bless their hearts, were good people who couldn’t have children of their own. They gave me a stable, loving home, and then a few years later, they adopted two girls. My older sister, Ava, was the picture of success. She married her high school sweetheart, had two-point-five kids—well, two boys and a girl—and lives that perfect life you see in catalogues.

My younger sister, Chloe, was different. She was a storm from the moment she hit her teenage years. At fifteen, her hair was a rotating kaleidoscope of jarring colors, and she was sneaking out at night to drink cheap beer with boys who were too old for her. At sixteen, the inevitable happened. She got pregnant. The father, a local tough guy with more muscle than sense, didn’t just deny it. He publicly shamed her, called her a slut in the school hallway, and then, for good measure, beat her badly enough to put her in the hospital for two days. Then he vanished.

My parents, kind but thoroughly conventional, couldn’t cope. The shame, the drama—it was too much for their quiet, average world. Chloe, pregnant and with nowhere else to go, showed up on my doorstep.

I laid out the terms plainly. “You can stay here,” I told her, my heart aching for the bruised girl who was still just a kid herself. “But if you’re going to have this baby, you have to get serious. No more games.”

Something in her broke that night, but in a good way. The defiance washed away, replaced by a grim determination. She took the deal. She finished her high school diploma online and enrolled in a local culinary program. At seventeen, she gave birth to a hauntingly beautiful baby girl she named Lily. And from that day forward, I became the only father figure Lily would ever know.

Chloe was a good mother, in her way. She finished her program and got a job in a restaurant kitchen, working her way up from peeling potatoes to becoming the sous chef. But kitchen life is brutal. The hours are long, the work is hard, and weekends are the busiest time. When Lily was about ten, Chloe’s promotion meant she had to work every Friday and Saturday night, often double shifts.

So, Lily started spending her weekends with me.

It became our routine, an unbreakable pact. She has her own room in my house, painted a soft lilac she chose herself. And over the years, we developed our rituals. The most important one, the one that has defined our bond more than anything else, is the bedtime ritual.

It started when she was small, scared of the dark. I’d tuck her in, pulling the covers up to her chin. Then I would lean down and kiss her right cheek. She would whisper, “I.” Then, I’d kiss her left cheek. She’d whisper, “Love.” Finally, I’d kiss her forehead. And she’d whisper, “You.”

One night, her small hands grabbed my shirt. “Promise me,” she said, her voice serious. “Promise you’ll always do this. Forever.”

“I promise, sweetheart,” I’d said, smoothing her hair back. “Forever.”

She’s eighteen now. A senior in high school, top of her class, with a scholarship to college waiting for her. She’s beautiful and smart and kind. And every single Friday and Saturday night, when she’s ready for bed, I still go to her room, tuck her in, and perform our sacred ritual. A kiss on the right cheek, a kiss on the left, a kiss on her forehead.

“I.”

“Love.”

“You.”

It’s the anchor of my average life. The one thing that is pure and unchanging. The one promise I will never, ever break.