Chapter 3 - EmilyIt was Emily. My niece. My younger sister Patricia's daughter. Twenty-three years old. The girl whose birthdays I'd attended for two decades. The niece I had not spoken to in two years.
My mind went blank. Emily looked at me, her eyes filling instantly.
"Catherine," Warrick said again.
I looked at my husband. "How long?"
"Please sit down."
"How long have you known?"
He hesitated. "Eight months."
Eight months. I'd been married to this man for thirty-one years, and been Emily's aunt for twenty-three, and for eight months there had been an entire piece of both their lives neither of them had told me about.
My legs went weak. I sat down.
"Tell me everything," I said.
So he did.
Eight months earlier, Emily had called him. Not me. Him. She was pregnant — twenty-two, finishing university, unmarried, unprepared for how fast her life had changed. It hadn't been planned, but she wanted the baby. The father was someone she'd briefly dated; they weren't together anymore, but there'd been no dramatic breakup. She'd told her mother. My sister Patricia had been shocked but supportive.
Then Emily had called Warrick.
"Why him?" I asked.
Emily lowered her eyes.
Because two years earlier, she had called me. And I had failed her.
That call had nothing to do with pregnancy. She'd called to tell me something deeply personal — that she was gay, that she'd fallen in love with a woman. And I had responded badly. There's no kinder way to put it. I said things that came from my own discomfort and limited understanding, and told myself at the time I was expressing concern. I know now I was making her truth about my own expectations.
Emily had trusted me enough to tell me who she was. Instead of making her feel loved, I made her feel judged. The call ended terribly. After that, she stopped speaking to me. I tried calling twice over the following two years. She didn't answer. Eventually I told myself giving her space was the respectful thing to do.
Standing in that maternity room, I understood how convenient that explanation had been.
Warrick had known about the rupture from the beginning. He'd heard my regret, knew I'd tried to apologize, and knew Emily wasn't ready to hear it. Then, eight months earlier, she'd called him about the baby.
"She asked me not to tell you," he said quietly.
"You visited her secretly for eight months?"
"Yes."
"She was pregnant this entire time?"
"Yes."
"And you said nothing?"
He looked down. "I should have told you."
"Yes, Warrick. You should have."
"I didn't know how. It means I couldn't tell you she was pregnant without telling you she was afraid of you knowing." He continued. "She was scared you'd react the same way you did two years ago. She asked me to let her decide when she was ready."
I looked at Emily. "How old is she?"
"Three days."
"A girl?"
May you like
Emily nodded. "Her name is Rosalind. Mom suggested it."
Patricia. My sister. My entire family had known this baby was coming. Except me.
Related Stories
