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Dear Maisie,

I just saw your first photo. Or, should I say, your first professional photo: the kind that gets published on the cover of People magazine. If I know anything about your mother, it’s that she’s been photo-documenting your life from the very first moment it began. Although, to be honest, I don’t think I know very much about your mother. And certainly nothing of substance. If I did, I probably wouldn’t be writing these letters. I’d be holding you in my arms.

Anyway, the papers were right, you have your mother’s eyes: the kind of blue green that looks like the waves lapping against a Caribbean beach. But they did get one thing wrong: you don’t have your father’s hair. No, you have my hair, your uncle’s hair, your grandmother’s hair. Big, fat, tightly wound curls. I suppose, though, it’s easier to suggest that your hair came from your father than it is to say “She has her long estranged Uncle Nick’s curly hair.” It’s a pity you didn’t get your mother’s hair too, I always thought it was beautiful. I think everyone does.

I must admit I watched your mother’s pregnancy from afar, faithfully checking the tabloids for scraps of news. Three months of rampant speculation followed by six months of paparazzi photos of her ever-growing belly and articles examining every stop she made in New York City’s many baby boutiques.

I couldn’t help myself. We’ve all regretted what happened between us, but anger like that is hard to escape, to silence, to walk away from. Repairing the damage between us has always seemed like an insurmountable task—even at my most willing, regretful moments. So the distance remains. And the tabloids are all I’ve had.

But back to the story at hand. The beginning and the end of everything…

The second time we met your mother, your father was prepared. I knew something was up when he spent more time than usual—and let me tell you, that was no small feat—in the bathroom getting ready that morning. We’d been travelling non-stop since the last meeting and we were all exhausted. Your dad emerged from the bathroom looking fresh as a daisy and I knew something had to be up.

It wasn’t until we got to the label offices that I figured out what was going on. We were about 15 minutes early and by coincidence, your mother was entering the building at the very same moment. She looked pretty pissed off, and frankly, I was more than happy to stay out of her way, but your dad did not seem at all deterred. He walked right up to her and I watched she nearly jumped out of her skin when he began talking before she even noticed his presence. Her entire venti latte ended up spilled down the front of your father’s outfit.

Instead of falling to the ground, groveling and apologizing—as I’m relatively certain your father expected her to—she punched your dad on the shoulder. Hard. The look on his face was priceless, I still remember it. Suddenly the tables were turned. I don’t even know what your mother said to him, but he just stood there staring at her back, mouth agape, as she strode to the elevator bank. Then quickly he jogged over to your grandmother, spoke for a second, and turned on his heel to run out the doors. I had no idea what was going on until he entered the meeting about five minutes late, bearing another huge latte.

“You think you’re so charming, kid, and you’re not,” she hissed at him as the meeting began. I was seated on his immediate right and heard every word.

“Who are you calling kid?” he was indignant.

Under their breath they bickered through the rest of the meeting. Up until that point I’d never met anyone who could argue as long as your father could. She was so visibly irritated with him—her back drawn straight and her shoulders taught—I’m not sure what gave him the impression it was wise to continue speaking to her. And yet, continue he did. He was un-phased by the rest of the meeting occurring around him, apparently viewing it as nothing more than a minor interruption to the steady stream of pithy comments he was arranging in his head. I could easily see why your mother was so frustrated by him. About halfway through the meeting even I wanted to clock him.

When the meeting ended, once again your mother left without a word. She’d tossed her final barb just as our A&R rep was closing the meeting, and before your father could get a word in edgewise she was walking out of the room, chatting with a coworker.

As we stood to leave, the look on your father’s face was strange, twisted into an unfamiliar expression. By that time, I’d spent so much time with my brothers I was pretty sure I could read them both like books. This was a look I’d never seen before. I considered it for a moment, but the thought never crossed my mind to ask your father what was going on. By that point in our relationship, it was just easier to assume things. So I simply chalked it up to the newness of the experience. I couldn’t recall ever seeing your father rejected by a woman. Let alone one he was so intently pursuing.

“We’ll see you all tonight at the listening party,” our rep said as we prepared to leave.

Your father’s face lit up, “Amazing. She’s going to be there tonight. I am so in,” he said.

“Dude, she can’t stand you. Did you see the look on her face? Get with it,” your Uncle Kevin admonished, shaking his head. “Besides, she’s like…twice your age, that’s just gross.”

We all thought he was crazy. He was so lost in thought I don’t know that he even heard a word your Uncle said.

Your mother did, indeed, attend the party. And your father followed her around like a lost puppy. She didn’t seem to take notice. After a few drinks, a new side of your mother emerged. Her body seemed to move differently, her hips more languid, and her eyelids heavy. I could tell what was about to happen long before your father could, and in a rare moment of compassion, I attempted to distract him as she moved closer and closer to the tall blonde she’d been talking to for most of the evening. Your father was the only one shocked when their lips met.

As I guided him away from the scene, I thought for sure your father had finally given up. I could not have been more wrong.

“That guy is an idiot,” he remarked to me. “She’s wasting her time with him.”

“Because you’re obviously a much better candidate,” I said, rolling my eyes at him. “You’re eighteen.” To me, that seemed to be all the evidence necessary. He was a kid. She was a fully fledged adult, obviously uninterested in your father, and gravitating toward other actual adult males.

“Doesn’t matter. I know I’d be so much better for her.”

“No, you know you can’t have her, and that’s the only reason you want her.”

When your father didn’t answer, I took that as proof that he knew I was essentially correct. I hoped, then, that he would drop the whole subject entirely. Little did I know that I’d only succeeded in making sure that he dropped the subject when he was around me. I’d only succeeded in turning the whole thing into some huge secret.

I’m sure you’re wondering where the great love story is in all of this. I promise it’s there. I just thought it was important to share it all, even if the beginnings were less than romantic. Maybe as a way of explaining myself. Or of explaining it to myself. Putting this down on paper has made the whole thing so much more real to me.

We missed it, Maisie, your father’s entire family missed the beginning of the thing. We were so busy laughing to ourselves about how silly and stubborn your father was being. Thinking it all a great ruse as he continued to pursue her. Just a way for him to pass the time and stroke his own ego, assure himself no woman could possibly resist him no matter how hard she tried. We were so busy with what we wanted to see that we couldn’t see what was really happening.

I think that’s why we would later mistrust your mother and her intentions. We were too blind to see what transpired between them, couldn’t understand it or believe it was anything real. Not when all that we’d ever witnessed was so…trivial.

And yet, there wasn’t a moment we witnessed that was as trivial as it may have seemed. It was the beginning of a love so strong that your father was willing to sacrifice his family for it, his career for it, the entire life he’d known…all to be with your mother.

All my love,

Uncle Nick