“Come on, youknowwhat she’s like when she puts on her inquisitor’s hat,” she adds.
I pat her shoulder and smother my irritation. “It’s not your fault.” We called my sister okra-mouth growing up because when it came to secrets, her lips are as slippery as the infamously slimy vegetable.
This is a family where secrets go to die and I knew that once I was back home, it was only a matter of time before they’d know everything.
I knock on the door out of courtesy before I push it open and step into the cozy room. I can’t help but check the shelves for books that weren’t there a week ago. I love this room. It’s where I felt happiest when I was growing up in this house. My father is as voracious a reader as I am and his study was my personal library.
I had what my mother called an “unnatural” curiosity and asked questions until I had an answer that made sense.
My father was the only person who didn’t seem annoyed by it. He bought books he thought would feed my thirst for stories and answers. This room was where we spent hours talking about any and everything.
It is also where they bring me when I’ve earned a talking to.
Growing up, I gave them plenty of occasion for that. But since I turned eighteen and came close enough to disaster to taste it, I’ve been the model oldest daughter. I’ve given them reasons to be proud and my siblings inspiration. Until now.
“So, you and Stephen have broken up,” my mother says as soon as Isit down.
“Yes.” I nod and cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap and keep my face somber and my eyes contrite. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know how to.”
“He told us he was ring shopping. He asked your father for permission to ask you to marry him. What happened?” my mother asks.
I look at her. “What do you mean? When did he do that?”
“Just last week. He said he was going to surprise you.”
Disgusted and shocked, I suppress the urge to curse. “I wish he had talked to me before he told you that. It would have saved us all a lot of heartache. It’s over, and he knows it.” I’d rehearsed this answer and I cringe at how lacking in warmth my delivery is.
“But why didn’tyoutell us things were over? Estelle didn’t know either.”
I flinch at the mention of my ex’s mother. “You told her?”
“Of course I did,” she says indignant and reproachful at once. “Just becauseyoucan keep things from people who have a right to know doesn’t mean we all have to do the same.”
“I’m sorry. I was going to tell you. Just not yet. I mean…until I was sure it was really over.”
“Oh, thank God,” my mother clutches her lapels and blows a kiss skyward. “So it’s not over.”
I raise a hand waving in disagreement. “No, no it is. We weren’t made to last. He’s a great—”
My mother groans loudly and I dart a glance to my father. He shrugs and frowns as if he’s helpless to do anything to stop the dramatics she’s about to perform.
“Mama. I am sorry. I didn’t tell you because I knew you would be upset. He’s not great. And he’s not faithful.”
“Okay. And?”
“What do you mean,and?” I look at my father. Accusation turns my voice sharp. “What does she mean?” I demand.
He holds his hands up. “Don’t look at me. I love my wife and my peace of mind too much to be stupid.”
My mother pets his knee and they share a smile before she turns back to me. “It happens. And at your age, you should be glad that he didn’t leave you for her. Try to forgive him.”
I look at my mother askance. “I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but he wasn’t a prize. That man doesn’t know how to cook, or clean.”
“Why should he? When you do? You sound like an American.”
“IamAmerican,” I remind her.
“Only by passport. We raised you with the values from home.”
