3. Use my last name for real
1258 Words
Julian Mackenzie's POV
LOVE… That word is reserved only for my daughter, my princess, my everything: Alina.
I know. My grandfather Bruce clings to life just for her. He worries that, over the years, I haven't been able to give her a mother. But no woman is worthy of that title.
My mother tried to make me understand once, when she told me:
"She needs a mother, son. Just like you, when you were a child, needed a father. I know the circumstances are different… But please, try your best to find a good woman."
That's my karma. I'm aware that I hurt a good woman like Lia. And I've paid dearly for that mistake.
What consumes me now is my daughter. She doesn't speak.
A few days ago, I took her to London to see Alistair Fox, a friend of my father's, a world-renowned neurologist. After evaluating her, he determined that there was nothing wrong with her.
That day, my daughter suffered a sudden and alarming fever. Her little body was burning up, and within hours her temperature rose uncontrollably, forcing me to rush her to the hospital. There, a young doctor with a calm voice explained that her immune system was weakened.
I barely paid attention. I was annoyed by how casually my daughter snuggled into her arms as she told her a ridiculous giraffe story.
Now, in the waiting room of Manhattan's best child psychologist, I wait for my daughter to be seen. Alistair recommended therapy, and I followed his advice.
The door opens.
"Mr. Mackenzie, please come in," the psychologist says, as her assistant takes Alina away with the promise of a treat.
I enter, feeling a bit anxious.
"Get to the point. Tell me what's wrong with my daughter."
The woman confronts me with a professional calm that irritates me.
"Since you ask... your daughter needs a mother figure. In kindergarten, she observes her classmates and associates that emptiness with silence. It's not that she can't speak, Mr. Mackenzie. She simply doesn't want to."
Again. Always the same conclusion. She needs a mother.
"She has my sisters, my mother... Aren't they enough as mother figures?" I ask, my jaw clenched.
"They fill the role of an aunt, a grandmother. You must understand that everyone processes their needs differently. Alina needs to know about her origins. She needs to fill that void."
I've never denied her origins. But if I have to invent a mother for her, I will. The thought forms in my mind like a cold, calculated plan.
"I understand, Doctor. I hope that with your work you can help my daughter."
"Of course, Mr. Mackenzie. We'll take it slowly, although I admit your daughter is quite closed off."
A shiver of fury runs through me.
"Don't blame my daughter for your ineptitude," I exclaimed angrily.
I leave without giving her time to reply. I pick up my princess and carry her home.
"Are you okay?" I ask her.
She just nods, burying her face in my neck.
I'm fed up. My daughter's suffering hurts me more than my own.
When I arrive, I find my parents and Grandpa Bruce visiting. At ninety years old, he's still traveling. All to see Alina.
I feel overwhelmed. I need to escape their pitying and disappointed stares. I know I'm turning thirty-six, but I'm not the only man in the world without a steady partner.
"Dad, I have to go. Take care of Alina, please."
My father nods silently. I don't need to say anything more.
Tonight I don't want a club or a woman to offer fleeting relief from my stress. I end up at my friend Jeremy's restaurant and bar. A drink won't hurt.
As I walk in, my gaze instinctively falls upon a woman. Long, light hair, an elegance that suits the place. Yes, I admit it, I'm a jerk, because the first thing I notice is her hips, the shape of her buttocks, and the way she moves with a naturalness that promises more than just aesthetics.
I sit at the bar, a couple of meters away from her.
The bartender serves me my usual. Alina's face flashes through my mind, and frustration tightens in my chest.
Then she gets up and walks toward me. I'm not in the mood for a one-night stand tonight, but maybe… maybe I can make an exception.
The light from the bar illuminates her face, and my breath catches in my throat.
I recognize her. It's the doctor from London. The one with the giraffes.
I look at her sharply, feigning indifference. But she recognizes me and tries to speak.
I pretend not to remember her, making it clear I have no interest.
What happens next takes me by surprise. A woman bursts in, shouting insults I can't quite process.
Her verbal aggressor calls her pathetic and even blames her for being with her husband, and a primal impulse is triggered within me. I don't know why it bothers me so much that this woman insults this stranger. But she does.
When the doctor, in an act of desperation, blurts out:
"He's my boyfriend! We're going to get married!"
I freeze. Not because of the lie, but because of her audacity. Because of the way her fingers tremble as she holds my hand.
I could push her away. It would be the logical thing to do.
Instead, I stand up and take her hand.
Her hand is soft, small. It fits perfectly in mine, as if it was meant to be there from the beginning.
I lead her away without letting her speak, feeling the other woman's furious gaze behind us. I put her in my car.
The pieces fall into place in my mind with terrifying clarity. This woman could be the answer to my problems. She's not just any woman. She… She's already been close to Alina, my daughter, who felt comfortable with her.
She's a doctor, intelligent, and seems desperate. She's simply perfect.
She lied to save herself. But I'll make her lie real.
I climb into the driver's seat and, without a word, start the engine.
The silence in the car is tense, heavy with questions she doesn't dare ask.
I'm not going home. Not where my family is. I'm driving to the apartment I use for my casual encounters. It's private, discreet, and perfect for sealing a good deal.
I park. I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white. She looks at me, fear beginning to shine in her eyes.
Finally, I speak, my voice a low whisper.
"You said you were my girlfriend. You said we'd get married."
She opens her mouth to explain, but I don't give her time.
I spin in my seat, cornering her against the door.
"I'm not a man who lets a woman use his name in vain. If you're going to use my last name, it has to be real.
I glance down at her lips, which tremble slightly, and then into her eyes. My decision is made. It's not crazy. It's the most logical solution I've had in years.
"We're going to get married," I declare, my voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to be the mother of my daughter."
Her face pales. I see panic reflected in her pupils, but also something else… a flicker of indignation struggling to surface.
In my mind, there's only one voice repeating itself over and over, like a dark prayer:
"Alina, my daughter… Daddy's finally going to give you a mother."
- Writer
