I turned to my mother.
“How do you know all this?”
She let out a slow breath.
“You let me choose you over my parents.”
“I ran into Jenna at the grocery store,” she said. “She looked awful. She told me she’s been trying to have kids. Miscarriage after miscarriage. She kept saying God was punishing her. So I asked, ‘For what?’ And she told me.”
Of course, Jenna thought it was punishment.
Of course, my mother went looking for proof.
I felt like the ground beneath me had shifted.
“We were wrong too.”
“You let me choose you over my parents,” I said to my husband, “without giving me the whole truth.”
He flinched. “I didn’t let you—”
“Yes,” I snapped. “You did. You took that choice away from me.”
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My mom’s voice softened. “We were wrong too. For cutting you off. For not reaching out. We thought we were protecting you, but really we were protecting our image. I’m sorry.”
“I need you to leave.”
I didn’t have room in my mind for her apology yet.
I placed the papers on the table. My hands were steady.
“I need you to leave,” I said to my husband.
His chin quivered. “Where am I supposed to go?”
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He sobbed.
I gave a short, bitter laugh.
“That’s what I had to figure out at 17,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Don’t do this,” he said. “We have a life. A child. Please.”
“I had the right to know who I was choosing. You lied from the very beginning. Everything after that grew from that lie.”
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