Chapter 3 - What the Water Glass Couldn't Hide
Delia walked back in with a glass of water in each hand.
She held one out. I took it. My fingers were shaking so hard I had to squeeze the glass to keep it still.
"Okay." Her eyes moved between me and Marcus, and the smile was already sliding off her face. "What did I walk out on?"
"Nothing," I said. "Marcus was just —"
"Mrs. Whitfield." His voice was quiet, but it went straight through mine. "You've got about three minutes."
Delia spun toward him. "Marcus. What is going on?"
He didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked on me.
The quiet stretched out. Maybe four seconds. It felt like a year.
"Mom." She set her glass down on the coffee table. Her voice had dropped all its brightness. "What is he talking about?"
"Sweetheart, it's late, and you've been up since —"
"Mom."
One word. But the way she said it — flat, careful, braced for impact — told me she already knew something underneath her life had cracked. She just didn't know the shape of it yet.
I sat down on the couch. Not by choice. My legs just quit.
"There are things," I started, "about the time before we moved here. About your father."
She went still. "What about him?"
"I told you he left when you were two. That he didn't want us to find him."
"Right."
"That part was true." I stared at my hands. "It just wasn't all of it."
Marcus had drifted back toward the door. Not leaving. Just giving us room. I was almost thankful.
"Then what's all of it?" Delia asked.
I'd run this conversation in my head a hundred times over the years. Every version started the same and collapsed in the same spot. Right here. The moment I had to say his name out loud.
"Your father didn't just leave," I said. "He left because I made him leave."
Delia didn't move.
"He wanted to stay. He wanted to be in your life. And I told him if he ever came near us again, I'd —" My voice cracked. I pushed through it. "I said things that weren't fair. I was terrified and I was furious, and I made a call that wasn't only mine to make."
"Why?" Barely a whisper now. "Why would you do that?"
"Because of what he'd done. Before you were born. Before I even knew I was pregnant." I finally lifted my head. "He wasn't a good man back then, Delia. He hurt people. He hurt me. And when I found out you were coming, I decided to keep you as far from that as I could."
"But you lied to me." She wasn't crying. Somehow that was worse. "You told me he didn't want me."
"I know."
"You let me believe for seventeen years that my own father looked at me and walked away."
"I know."
"And he's been —" She stopped. Swallowed. "Is he alive?"
The question I'd dreaded most.
"Yes," I said. "He's alive."
She turned to Marcus. Something passed between them that I wasn't part of — something that had already been said tonight, somewhere between the dance and my living room.
"Marcus's dad," Delia said slowly. "He knows my father."
It wasn't a question.
I looked at Marcus. He gave one small nod.
"They grew up together," he said quietly. "Same town. Same street, actually."
May you like
The walls felt like they were moving in.
"His name," Delia said. She turned back to me. Her voice was completely steady now, and that steadiness was the most frightening thing I'd ever heard come out of her. "Tell me his name."
