When I started spending time with Zoe, my boyfriend’s daughter, we often took “Girls Only” walks where she shared secrets she felt she couldn’t tell her dad. It sparked a bit of jealousy in him. Zoe felt like her father didn’t understand her, while I did—perhaps because, like her, I grew up in a divorced family and knew the longing for a personal space at her dad’s house, especially when that space wasn’t there. She craved his pride and affection, needing reassurance of his love. Unlike her mother’s love, which she felt certain about, Zoe was unsure of her father’s feelings, a sentiment that resonated with my own experiences.
We made popsicles, played games of Boggle, and when a friend failed to show for a sleepover, I comforted Zoe as she cried. At just 10 years old, she was an intriguing mix of childlike wonder and deeper worries, and I was there for both sides of her. Years before meeting her father, I had envisioned a name for my future daughter. When I learned about Zoe, I felt a deeper connection—not only did her name resonate with my own plans, but it also made me feel closer to her father, Jake. The similarities in our names were uncanny, almost as if fate had a hand in it. After spending time with Zoe, I began to wonder if she was the little girl I had dreamt about all along.
During our time in Maine, we stayed at her grandparents’ house, and I found solace in writing at her grandfather’s desk. Jake and I would prepare her lunch together, and afterward, I would take Zoe to the library or the local candy shop. We explored the woods, where she taught me about the wonders of moss and lichen. On days I wasn’t there to pick her up, she would peek into my writing space to ask how many words I had written, and I’d tell her that my favorite time of day was “Zoe O’Clock.”
I will always cherish that month we spent together on the foggy island, where I felt a sense of family that I had longed for. Jake had his own family, with Zoe as his daughter from a previous marriage, but he was still searching for his career, just as I was yearning for the family he had built. When the time came to leave the island, we left Zoe behind with her mother. Little did I know that our relationship would soon dissolve, and I would never see Zoe again.
People often fantasize about their exes returning with flowers, begging for another chance. In my daydream, however, it’s Zoe standing at my door, not with flowers but carrying a suitcase, asking if she can live with me forever.
I think about Zoe nearly every day and miss her deeply. When Jake and I ended things, Zoe asked if that meant she had to lose me too. Both of us said no, but I secretly understood that it wouldn’t last. So, I created a tentative plan in my mind for gradually stepping back from her life. I sent her letters and small packages throughout the year, hoping to ease her transition away from me. I longed to keep her in my life but also wanted her to be open to Jake’s future partners.
It has been three years since Jake and I parted ways, and my last message to Zoe was two summers ago. I know she’s moved on and is happy, one of many girlfriends who have come and gone in her life, but she is irreplaceable to me. The process of letting go may have worked for her, but it didn’t work for me. I still feel the ache of missing her and wonder if that will ever fade.
I often worry that the most genuine sense of family I will ever have was that one month living with Zoe and Jake on that beautiful island. I wish I could return to that time, but it’s no longer mine to claim. The island belongs to Jake, and Zoe is his daughter. Here I am, still searching for what’s next.
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