My mother shot him a look. “Richard—”
“You said she was being dramatic.”
“I said she tends to be dramatic.”
“I died,” I said.
My father’s eyes moved to me.
For one brief moment, I saw something like horror in his face. Maybe guilt. Maybe fear of being judged. With Richard Crawford, it was hard to tell. He had always outsourced emotion to my mother.
Claire rubbed her belly.
“Okay, this is obviously serious, but the shower—”
“No,” I said.
The word cut through the room.
Claire’s mouth opened.
I had never interrupted her before.
No one in our family interrupted Claire.
I did it again.
“No. You do not get to stand beside my hospital bed and mention your baby shower like it belongs in the same sentence as my heart stopping.”
Her face crumpled, but not with remorse. With offense.
“I didn’t ask you to get sick!”
“And I didn’t ask you to care,” I said. “Clearly, that would have been too much.”
My mother stepped toward the bed. “That is enough.”
Gerald moved between us.
It was not dramatic. He did not raise his voice. He simply placed himself in the space between my mother and me.
“No closer,” he said.
My mother stared at him as if he had slapped her.
“How dare you?”
“With twenty-six years of practice,” he replied.
Silence.
Then my father said, “Eleanor, who is this man?”
My mother’s lips pressed shut.
Gerald answered for her.
“My name is Gerald Maize. Before she married you, Eleanor and I were engaged. She was pregnant. She told me the baby died.”
My father went pale.
Claire whispered, “What?”
I watched my mother.
She did not deny it.
Not immediately.
That was how I knew.
The truth had entered the room, and even Eleanor Crawford could not perfume it fast enough.
My father’s coffee cup slipped from his hand and hit the floor, splattering brown liquid across the tile.
“Pregnant,” he said.
Mother lifted her chin. “It was complicated.”
Gerald’s voice hardened. “You told me my child was dead.”
“I was nineteen!”
“You were a liar.”
“I did what I had to do.”
“For who?” I asked.
Her gaze snapped to me.
For a moment, the old reflex rose in me. The instinct to shrink. Apologize. Make her comfortable.
But I was connected to tubes. Cut open. Bruised from defibrillator pads. My throat raw from intubation. My body had fought harder for me than my family had.
I owed her nothing.
“For who?” I repeated.
My mother’s expression twisted.
“For all of us,” she said. “You have no idea what it was like. My parents were threatening to disown me. Richard’s family would never have accepted me if they knew. Gerald had nothing. Nothing. Was I supposed to throw my life away?”
Gerald absorbed the blow without flinching.
I did not.
Because beneath her explanation was the answer to every question I had ever carried.
Why did she resent me?
