Family Love

“Honey, I think it’s probably not worth the effort,” Cal said to me one late April morning over breakfast. He smiled and put a strawberry to my lips. I took it, wincing at its early season sourness. “You have enough going on already.”

I sipped some coffee before jumping up so fast my chair fell over. I barely made it to the bathroom.

“Oh, my Lord,” I said, leaning against the tub after throwing up the scant contents of my stomach. “Is it go

I glared up at my husband who leaned in the door, looking pleased with himself. “Well, help me up, already. Just because you knocked me up when my Italian stallion husband couldn’t.”

He smacked my ass. “Some of us are better at some things than others. And remember, dear heart, I couldn’t knock up the first Missus Morrison, either. And I assure you it was not from lack of trying.”

When I turned around after brushing my teeth, he pulled me close. I shoved him away, irrationally jealous over thoughts of my Cal making love to anyone but me.

He looked me up and down, making me tingle from head to toe. “Guess the DNA combination that was meant to be is ours,” he said, his voice perfectly calm, as always.

I sighed and let him hold me after I administered a quick, stern i

I’ll admit I was tempted. Ever since getting my good news I’d been insatiable, as if my hormones had revved into a weird kind of overdrive.

I reached into his shorts. “Mmmm …” I said. “Okay, let’s.”

He sighed. “Forgot, can’t. I have to get to work. Oh, Jesus.” He groaned when I pushed him out into the hall, yanked his shorts down and slid my lips over the head of his cock. He let me mess with him a while, then pulled me up to meet his lips. “Turn around,” he whispered. I did, bracing my hands on the wall and sighing when he slid into me.

Later that morning, I sat at the desk in the newly-expanded studio office, pondering resumes and wondering what in the hell made me think I could run a business. I kept sipping tea and eating saltines between bouts of puking. After a couple of hours setting up interviews and assigning classes to the three instructors I had already hired, I gave up.

When I pulled into my parents’ driveway, I blinked, not even realizing I’d meant to come here. But I got out and headed for the door, knowing it was high time I told my mother the news.

“Hello?” I opened the door, expecting the usual greeting from the kitchen. But the house was silent. I went up the steps to the main living room, figuring maybe she was napping. But it was empty. The kitchen was tidy, tucked away, unused, which was odd. There was no smell of morning coffee or toast. Panic bloomed in my chest. I ran upstairs, calling for her. The bathroom and all the bedrooms were clean and devoid of people.

“Shit,” I muttered. “Mama! Where the hell?” I stopped at the top of the stairs to the lower family room.

“Down here,” she called. I dashed down the steps to the bottom basement. She sat on the butt-sprung, ratty old couch my brothers and I had played on, sat on while drinking illicit beers, and made out on with various partners over the years. The room was neat as a pin. The toys Mama kept around for her grandbabies were all put away. It smelled of fabric softener and starch.

She sat on the couch, fists on her knees, tears streaming down her face. “I have to get him back,” she said. “Angelique, please, you have to talk to him.”

I sat next to her and put my arm around her thin shoulders. To my utter shock, she leaned into my neck and sobbed like a child. Feeling all sorts of awkward, I patted her back. Finally she sat up and dabbed her eyes. “We are too dang old for this nonsense. Divorce. Lord have mercy. It’s not like he didn’t … and it was so long ago …”

“Well, Mama, I guess—”

She shot me a sharp, familiar look. Then she sighed and seemed to crumple in on herself. I patted her knee, at a total loss. The sum total of our relationship didn’t include a whole lot of moments that would give me any real frame of reference for this one.

“I’m go

She blinked fast, and then grabbed my hand. “Oh, honey. I’m so happy for you.”

Then she started crying again—loud, gut-wrenching, anguished sobs that scared me. After a while, she got up and started pacing the room, the way Antony tended to do when he was upset about something.

I sat, swallowing a sudden surge of nausea.

“I’m sorry. I told him I was sorry.” She twisted her fingers together before dragging them through her hair. “I told them both that. Now I’ve lost them both. My sweet baby boy and … my …” She dropped to her knees, startling me even further. I got up and went to her, unsure what to do.

She grabbed my legs and held on for dear life. I pulled her up, gave her a hug and said, “Let’s go have some tea.” She swallowed hard, and then chuckled. Then she giggled. Then she laughed.

I held onto her, thinking I should call Cal, or maybe the guys in the white coats, ’cause my Mama had just gone the rest of the way ’round the bend. Finally, she calmed.

“Oh, honey,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Oh, my sweet girl.” She patted my cheek. “I always wanted a girl, you know. But kept getting all those damn boys.”

I moved away, nervous now, and a little aggravated. “Couldn’t prove it by me,” I said, picking up the pile of clothes she must have dropped on her way to laundry room.

“Oh don’t be silly, Angelique.” Her dismissive tone had returned. She stood, arms crossed, face red and puffy, but yet still managing to force me in the irrational teenager role.

“I’m not silly, Mama. You hated my ever-loving guts. Don’t deny it.”

She put a hand over her lips and closed her eyes. “No,” she finally said, staring at me from across the expanse of old, smelly couch. “No, I didn’t hate you. I hated myself.”

I frowned and crossed my arms, mirroring her. “What is that supposed to mean? Unless you’re fixin’ to tell me I have a different daddy, too?”

She moved fast, shocking me with the slap. I put a hand to my stinging face. “I’ll take that as a no,” I said, turning to go upstairs.

“Angelique, wait.”

I stopped. Calvin had told me more than once I should try harder with her, give her a shot at being a good mother without jumping in and causing trouble with my smart-ass commentary first. Respectful of my love for that man, and for no other reason, I faced her with my mouth shut.

She had her arms held out as if in supplication. They were shaking. “I was so … so very tired. I didn’t want another baby. My body definitely didn’t, even though I’m still mad at your Daddy for letting those surgeons tie up my tubes while I was out.”

She bit her lip. I stayed quiet. “I was disappearing under a mountain of babies and diapers and toys and puke and shit.” Her lip quivered. She cleared her throat.

“After Aiden, I swore I’d make everything right with him, with Anton. I mean, he’d done it, too—let that slutty woman—” She stopped and ran a hand down her face. “It doesn’t justify what I did. I knew it was my fertile time of the month, and I did it anyway. I let Joe Patterson fuck me.”

I took a step backwards, more shocked by that than any slap she might administer.

“I needed something. And I got it. I got Aiden, the sweetest, most wonderful little baby boy. And I also got to keep the most terrible secret, carry it around my neck like a stone all day, every day, picking it up every morning, and letting it color everything about my view of myself and my inability to be the wife and mother I should be.”

“Mama, you were—” I stopped. She truly had been a supermom, the volunteering, chaperoning, party-throwing, cookie-baking, house-always-clean and di