Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
I just look at her.
She smiles softly. “A mother knows.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I open my mouth to say no, because talking is the last thing I want to do. But the denial dies on my lips and comes out as a sob, and once it starts, I can’t stop. She pulls me to her, and I lay my head in her lap as I cry. And words spill out of me along with the tears, all the struggling and fighting, the lies and the broken promises, the resentment that grew when he got swept up in the hurricane and left me behind to battle the storm.
“He’s been calling here,” she says. “Drunk. Your father answered the first call. He wanted to know if we’d heard from you. Said he came home and you were gone, so he thought you might come here. And he kept calling back, but your father didn't answer again until tonight… when he told him if he knew what was good for him, he’d stop.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she says. “I know what it feels like. Your dad’s the greatest man I know, but he was a terrible drunk. It changes people, and that doesn’t excuse anything, but it means there’s hope. They can get better, but you can’t change them. They have to want to change.”
“He doesn’t want to.”
“Maybe not,” she says. “Or maybe not yet. It took your dad a while. But no matter what he did, I knew I had to look out for myself… and for my kid. And I have no doubt you’ll do the same, because you’re my daughter.”
I feel better hearing that. Not completely, of course, because life is scary and my heart is still broken and the boy I fell in love with is gone, but enough to pick myself up and keep going.
Days pass. A week. A month.
A new year comes.
I gather the courage to see a doctor. I’m still in the first trimester. My father and I haven’t spoken much, but he knows I’m pregnant. He calls it the ‘lovesickness’.
More days.
I get a job at the grocery store, and I hate it, but they give me a lot of hours, and I need money.
More weeks.
I’m starting to show. I stare at myself in the mirror, rubbing my stomach, feeling the bump. It’s weird. There’s a life growing inside of me right now.
The doctor tells me it’s a girl.
You have a daughter, Jonathan, and you don’t even know. I feel the fluttering as she moves around, and my heart is soaring. I’m still scared, so scared, but when I feel her, this overwhelming sense of love flows through me, and I smile.
I’m smiling again.
It’s like I’ve finally figured out the point of it all, the purpose of our story—it’s her.
More months.
The world is thawing. Spring comes.
I’m six months along and sitting on the porch, in one of the rocking chairs, bundled up to ward off the chill, when you pop up. The black town car slowly pulls up to the curb in front of the house, and there you are. My mother has to stop my father from storming out of the house.
You look like yourself from afar, but as you approach, I see the eyes are all wrong. It’s early, the sun barely in the sky, and you’re still awake from last night. You linger somewhere in the gray area between drunk and hung-over, coherent enough to stand up straight but by no means are you sober.
Still as handsome as ever, though. You’re wearing a suit and your tie is tugged loose, a glimmer of a teenage rebel I remember.
“Can we talk for a minute?” you ask, stopping near the porch, and I almost laugh at your choice of words, because that’s what I asked, too.
I say nothing, staring at you.
“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
Something you’ll never know is at that very moment, as you say those words, I forgive you. I don’t even know what you’re sorry for, but I forgive you for all of it. I don’t tell you that, though, because I don’t do it for you.
It’s for her.
I still stare.
You talk some more, going on and on about how wrong you were and how much you miss me and how you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep, how hard it is not having me to come home to, and all I can think about as I listen to your words is how much growing up you have to do, Jonathan, because every sentence from your lips contains ‘I’ or ‘My’ or ‘Me’, but you can’t be the center of the universe anymore.
Not this universe.
“So it’s true?” you ask. “You’re pregnant?”
I avert my gaze and nod, because you deserve to know, but I can’t find the words I need to tell you anymore.