“So you lied,” I said. “You let me think you were an innocent victim. You let me burn my life down for you based on a lie.”
“I was scared,” he said. “Then time passed, and it felt too late. Every year, it got harder to tell you. I hated myself, but I couldn’t risk losing you.”
I turned to my mother. “How do you know all this?”
“I ran into Jenna at the grocery store,” she explained. “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 she told her.
Of course my mother hunted down proof.
I felt like the ground had tilted beneath me.
“You let me choose you over my parents,” I said to my husband, “without giving me all the facts.”
“I didn’t let you—”
“Yes,” I snapped. “You did. You took away my choice.”
My mother’s voice softened. “We were wrong, too. For cutting you off. For not reaching out. We thought we were protecting you, but we were protecting our image. I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t process her apology yet.
I placed the papers back on the table.
“I need you to leave,” I said to my husband.
His chin trembled. “Where am I supposed to go?”
I let out a sharp laugh. “That’s what I had to figure out at 17. I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Don’t do this,” he begged. “We have a life. A child. Please.”
“I had a right to know who I was choosing. You lied on day one. Everything after grew out of that lie.”
This time, I wasn’t a scared teenager.
