Chapter 4 - Mom’s Version
Mom called thirty-one times before I agreed to meet her.
I chose a public café.
She hated that.
“Claire, we should be at home.”
“No.”
“This is family business.”
“That argument has had a terrible week.”
Mom looked exhausted. Her hair was pulled back without makeup, and for the first time in my life she looked older than Dad.
“I know you think I betrayed you.”
“I don’t think it.”
She flinched.
“I did not encourage them.”
“Ryan said you gave them privacy at your house.”
Her face changed.
“I gave them an opportunity to end it.”
“Why would ending an affair require repeated private meetings?”
“They told me they needed to talk.”
“And you believed them?”
“I wanted to.”
There it was.
Not ignorance.
Choice.
“How many times?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom.”
“Three. Maybe four.”
“Did you leave the house for them?”
She looked down.
“Yes.”
I leaned back.
“You left your own home so my husband could have private conversations with my sister.”
“I thought they were ending it.”
“Did you ask afterward?”
“Lauren said it was over.”
“When?”
“January.”
“Then why did you keep leaving?”
Mom began crying.
“Because she said she relapsed.”
I nearly laughed at the language. “Relapsed?”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You tell me.”
“She begged me not to.”
“And that mattered more than I did.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Claire, I knew what this would do to your father.”
I stared.
That was the center of it.
Not me.
Dad.
The family.
Appearances.
“What did you think it would do to me?”
She looked away.
“I thought Ryan would come back to you.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I thought if it ended, telling you would only hurt you.”
I felt something in me go cold.
“So your plan was for me to spend the rest of my marriage with a man who slept with my sister and never know.”
Mom whispered, “Yes.”
At least she finally said it.
I sat quietly.
People around us drank coffee and checked laptops. Somewhere a milk steamer hissed. My entire childhood was sitting across from me admitting she would have erased my right to know my own marriage.
“Dad suspects.”
Mom’s head snapped up.
“What?”
“He knows you changed the alarm code. He knows you asked him to stay out.”
Her face turned pale.
“Claire.”
“I didn’t tell him everything.”
“You can’t.”
I stared.
“You are still doing it.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Your father will leave me.”
“Maybe.”
“He has a heart condition.”
“He has mild hypertension.”
“Stress is dangerous.”
“Then maybe you should have considered that before managing an affair inside his house.”
Mom covered her face.
I had never spoken to her that way.
Part of me hated myself.
A larger part refused to rescue her from consequences she had assigned to me.
Then she said, “There’s something you don’t know.”
Of course.
I waited.
“Lauren was pregnant.”
My body went completely still.
“When?”
“In March.”
I could barely hear.
“By Ryan?”
“She said yes.”
The café disappeared.
“What happened?”
“She miscarried.”
I stared at her.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“Did Ryan?”
“Yes.”
I stood so quickly the table shook.
Mom reached for me. “Claire.”
I stepped back.
“March?”
“Yes.”
March was when Ryan suddenly became depressed. He told me work pressure was killing him. I booked a weekend away. I massaged his shoulders while he cried in a hotel bed. I thought he was overwhelmed.
He was grieving a pregnancy with my sister.
“Did you take her to the hospital?”
Mom nodded.
“Did you tell Dad?”
“No.”
“Did you tell me?”
“No.”
“How did you look at me after that?”
She started sobbing.
I could not stay.
I walked outside and called Lauren.
She answered.
“You were pregnant.”
Silence.
Then: “Mom told you.”
“How long?”
“Eight weeks.”
“Was it Ryan’s?”
“Yes.”
“Did you want it?”
Her voice broke.
“Yes.”
The first real emotion I had heard from her.
I closed my eyes.
“Did Ryan?”
Another pause.
“At first.”
“What does that mean?”
“He panicked.”
“About me?”
“About everything.”
“What did he want?”
“He wanted me to terminate.”
The word hit.
“But you miscarried.”
“Yes.”
I leaned against a building.
“Did that make you want him more or hate him?”
Lauren whispered, “Both.”
That explained so much.
Her anger.
Her insistence I find out.
Her contempt.
This was not just an affair anymore.
It was a triangle built around grief nobody had told me existed.
“Did Mom know Ryan wanted you to terminate?”
“Yes.”
“And she still protected him?”
“She was protecting Dad.”
Always Dad.
Family peace.
The sacred illusion.
I went home and confronted Ryan.
He did not deny the pregnancy.
He sat at our dining table with his head in his hands.
“I was terrified.”
“So was she.”
“I know.”
“Did you love the baby?”
His face crumpled.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s honest.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what part?”
He looked at me.
“All of it.”
“No. Be specific.”
He swallowed.
“I’m sorry I betrayed you. I’m sorry I used Lauren. I’m sorry I let your mother carry something that wasn’t hers. I’m sorry I came home after the miscarriage and let you comfort me.”
That one made me cry.
“You let me hold you.”
“Yes.”
“You cried in my arms.”
“Yes.”
“And never told me why.”
“Yes.”
I covered my mouth.
He reached for me.
I stepped back.
“Do not touch me.”
He stopped.
Then he said the sentence that finally destroyed the version of Ryan I still loved.
“I didn’t know how to choose.”
I stared.
“You were already married.”
He closed his eyes.
May you like
Exactly.
There should never have been a choice.
