Chapter 4: What His Mother Said
I read the line three times.
*"The reason I never told you about the pregnancy — the real reason — was because of what your mother said to me the night before I left."*
My mother had been at the funeral.
She was standing near the cars now, talking to a cousin.
She hadn't come over to me yet.
She'd kept her distance through the whole service, which I'd noticed but hadn't thought much about.
I read the rest of the second page standing at the edge of the cemetery with Lily's hand still in mine.
Cara's letter was careful.
She wasn't angry.
That was the first thing I noticed.
The words were measured, almost gentle, as if she'd rewritten them many times to make sure they didn't sound like an attack.
*"Your mother came to our apartment the evening before I left.
You were out.
She told me she knew about the pregnancy.
I don't know how — I had only just found out myself.
She said that if I told you, you would feel obligated to stay with me and give up everything you'd worked for.
She said I wasn't right for you.
That I came from the wrong kind of family.
That you deserved someone who could match you.
She wasn't cruel about it.
She was very calm.
She said she would make sure you were taken care of, that you'd find someone better, and that the kindest thing I could do for you was disappear."*
I folded the letter.
Lily looked up at me.
"Are you okay?"
"Not entirely," I said honestly.
Diane was watching my face.
"Did you know any of that?"
"No."
"Cara wasn't sure you did."
"She thought I might have sent my mother?"
"She didn't know what to think.
That was part of why she stayed away.
She didn't know if you knew.
And she was too scared to find out."
I looked across the cemetery toward my mother.
She was still talking to my cousin.
Her back was half-turned to me.
She was wearing a dark coat, her silver hair neat, her posture composed.
She looked like a woman attending a funeral for someone she'd barely known.
"I need to talk to her," I said.
"Not today," Diane said quietly.
"Not in front of Lily."
She was right.
I knew she was right.
I looked down at Lily, who was watching me with that careful, measuring expression.
"Are you hungry?" I asked her.
She blinked, surprised by the question.
"A little."
"Then let's get you something to eat."
We walked back across the grass together.
As we passed the main path, my mother turned and saw us.
Her eyes went to Lily.
Something moved across her face — recognition, or something close to it — and then it was gone, replaced by the smooth, practiced expression she'd worn my entire life.
"Daniel," she said.
"Who is this?"
"Her name is Lily," I said.
"We'll talk later."
My mother's eyes stayed on the girl.
"She looks—"
"Later," I said.
"Not here."
She closed her mouth.
Her jaw tightened slightly.
She nodded once.
I walked past her without stopping.
That evening, after I'd taken Lily to a diner down the street from the funeral home and watched her eat a grilled cheese sandwich with the focused seriousness of a child who hadn't eaten since morning, I called my mother.
She picked up on the second ring.
"I read the letter," I said.
Silence.
"Daniel—"
"Did you go to see Cara the night before she left?"
A longer silence this time.
"It was a long time ago," she said finally.
"That's not an answer."
"I did what I thought was right for you."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"She was pregnant.
She was alone.
She was twenty-two years old and you told her to disappear."
"I told her the truth.
You had a future.
She would have—"
"She would have been the mother of my child." My voice was steady.
I was surprised how steady it was.
"And I had a daughter I never knew existed.
For ten years."
Another silence.
Longer.
"I didn't know she would keep the baby," my mother said quietly.
"That doesn't make it better."
"Daniel, I—"
"I'm not ready to talk about this yet," I said.
"But I needed you to know that I know."
I ended the call.
Lily was asleep in the next room.
Diane had brought a small bag of her things.
She was staying in my guest room for now, which had been Diane's quiet, practical suggestion and which I had agreed to without hesitation.
I sat in the kitchen for a long time.
On the table in front of me was the letter, both pages, and the envelope.
And next to it, something I hadn't noticed until I got home — a small photograph that had been tucked into the bottom of the envelope.
Lily, maybe three years old, sitting in a garden.
Laughing at something off-camera.
On the back, in Cara's handwriting: *She has your laugh too.
May you like
I should have let you hear it sooner.
I'm sorry.*
