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That’s the issue with Americans. They’re so worried about saying the wrong thing when the wrong thing could be the only reality that you know.
“Did that upset your family?” she finally asks.
“It upset my father for sure, but my mother was thrilled with the money I was bringing in. For the first time since she married my father, she was able to feed us full meals, buy us new clothes, and fix things when they were broken. My father resented the hell out of me for it,” I continue, remembering the look on my father’s face the first time he caught me making an arrangement with my new clients.
“She knew where it was coming from, though, right? Didn’t she worry about you?” Delilah asks, and I can hear that worried, maternal tone coming out in her voice.
It would bother me coming from another woman. That sort of pity always makes my stomach turn.
But from Delilah, it feels safe.
Genuine.
I offer up a sad smile as I recall the memories. “She did, but when you think of the people she was used to dealing with on a regular basis because of my father, she wasn’t really fazed by it. That’s the saddest part. She was just happy that the evil in her life could bring her something good. That’s how low my father had brought her,” I say, my voice growing distant.
“We had such different lives growing up. It’s like we were from other planets,” Delilah says after a brief pause. “I always struggle to talk about my life with people who have had it much worse than me.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why is that?”
“Sometimes, I’m afraid that the other person will feel disrespected by how much easier my life was,” she admits, curling up into herself a little.
“Why would they? Life is life. People who are jealous that others aren’t miserable are damning themselves to misery forever. It’s like that whole idea about the law of attraction,” I reply.
“It still bothers me, I guess. I don’t know,” she replies, hesitating to say more.
I can see in her eyes that she wants to continue, that she wants to launch into a rant about how well-meaning but stagnant her parents were.
She doesn’t even need to tell me. It’s written all over the way that she functions.
“I want you to tell me about your parents then, and don’t hold back. Tell me everything, even the things about them that you hate that you wish you didn’t,” I say, grasping her hand and stroking it lightly to help her feel safer about talking to me.
Delilah isn’t the first person to tell me that she doesn’t want to explain her past because mine is worse. I get this a lot with American girls, especially the ones who grew up in affluent puritan families. They’ve been told their whole entire lives that the only people who are allowed to complain about anything are orphans without legs.
Delilah takes a deep breath, breaking eye contact as her gaze meets the window across from us. She stares out that window a lot when she’s deep in thought. It’s something I’ve noticed her doing since we woke up. I want to ask what she’s looking at, but I don’t want to make her self-conscious.
“My parents aren’tbadpeople. I don’t want you to think that I think they are. I guess I’ll put that out there first,” she begins.
“You don’t need to give me a disclaimer. Just say what’s on your mind. I feel like you never really get the chance to talk about yourself with Regan around,” I reply softly. “She’s soloud.”
“Don’t say that. She’s going to hear you,” Delilah replies frantically, immediately tilting her head up to listen for Regan.
We’re met with utter silence.
“Okay, sorry. Tell me about the whole family. I want to hear everything,” I say, squeezing her hand a bit to reassure her.
She relaxes her head back into the pillow. “Alright, my mom is a high school teacher, and my dad is an accountant. They tried for five years to have a kid before they adopted me. They did the whole IVF thing, and it ruined their savings, so their options were to either adopt me or go into debt to keep trying for their own baby.”
“Wait, did they adopt another kid after you? Was your sister adopted with you too?” I ask, confused at the distinct memory of Delilah’s sister being theother womanin her messy breakup.
She shakes her head. “No, Arielle was their little miracle baby. A couple of years after they had me, my mom was rushed to the hospital because they thought she had food poisoning. Turns out, she was pregnant and had been for two months.”
“That’s crazy. How old were you?” I ask, beginning to sense the feeling of loneliness that Delilah’s known her entire life. It would feel patronizing and inappropriate to hug her tightly in empathy, but that’s all I want to do right now.
“I was eight. I remember my parents trying to play it off, acting like it was something they planned and that it didn’t impact how they saw me in any way. But it was obvious that they were beside themselves with confusion,” she says, sitting up fully and pushing her fingers through my hair.
I love the way she touches me.
“Confusion about how they got pregnant?” I ask, growing genuinely curious. In a way, it feels voyeuristic of me to pry about the way her parents struggled to find answers about their pregnancy, but I understand now why some people like reality TV so much.
