If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(55)

“I don’t know what I’ll tell her or when, but that’s my choice, not yours.” Granted, I didn’t have many options, and all of them were terrible. I grabbed my stomach, which had cramped. “I can’t imagine taking Willa to visit Lyle in jail.”

“Why would you let that liar near her?” Erin shook her head.

“I might not have a choice!” I barked. Did a felony conviction terminate parental rights?

“Erin, don’t stress your sister in her condition.” Mom jumped out of her seat and rubbed my back. “Relax and drink some water. Take a breath, honey.”

Erin stood with her arms crossed, her face pinched in frustration.

I gulped water from the glass my mom had handed me, then met my sister’s gaze. “It’s black-and-white to you because you don’t have to think about anyone but yourself. I’m looking for a solution that doesn’t destroy more lives. That’s not so simple.”

Erin’s face got red, and I saw a flicker of hurt in her eyes. But she didn’t lash back in anger. “You’re wrong, sis. The answers are simple. You’re making them complicated. But I’ll stop pushing if you tell me one thing—what do you want? Don’t think about the baby or Mom or anyone else. For once, ignore all that and tell me what you want.”

“I want my life back! I want my husband to look at me like I’m a beautiful sunrise again. I want my daughter to know a father’s love the way we did. I want to know I can keep this house and not have to get a full-time job and pay a nanny to raise my daughter. I want my marriage to be what I thought it was . . . ,” I cried.

The disappointment in Erin’s eyes couldn’t be missed. “Oh, Amanda.”

“Don’t pity me.”

“It’s not pity.” She grabbed the back of the dining chair. “You’ve spent your whole life chasing perfection—with school, food, this house—but it’s time to wake up to reality. There is no perfect. There’re only messy truths. Willa will be better off with a mom who can face them than one who is trying to raise her in a Norman Rockwell cocoon.”

“Stop talking, Erin. Please.” Mom speared her with the look that used to precede some kind of punishment. Her only leverage these days would be kicking Erin out, which I didn’t want to see happen.

“I’ve lost my appetite.” Erin took her plate to the sink. Her gaze flickered from Mom to me. “Believe it or not, I’m not your enemy. I’m trying to help. You’re smarter than me, and maybe most people would look at our paths and judge yours better—this Lyle stuff excepted—but you could learn a thing or two about how to make the best of bad situations, and how to believe in yourself despite flaws and failings.”

She squeezed my shoulder before looking at Mom. “See you at home. I’m going to experiment with soaps for Willa.”

I wanted her to stay but wouldn’t ask. Maybe the idea of her making something pretty for my daughter appealed to me. Or maybe I was too proud to admit that I could learn from her.

One thing was certain, though. Lyle shouldn’t get to make all the rules anymore. The only way to grasp what he was capable of—and to protect my daughter—would be to better understand how he’d become this man I didn’t know. To learn about his past meant talking with his dad, but taking that step meant opening a door I might not be able to close.

For weeks I’d been doing everything I could think of to avoid this moment, but now I let the pain of the end of my marriage hit me fully, my body slowly folding in on itself as I cradled my belly, with my mother rubbing my back.

With deep breaths, I told myself we would be fine. Willed myself to rebuild stronger and smarter for the future.

Surely I’d survived the worst already.

It could only get easier from here.





CHAPTER TEN

ERIN

Last night I’d been in the kitchen, working on a cold-process soap recipe when my mother returned from Amanda’s. She’d taken one look at me in my goggles and gloves, shaken her head, and waved good night. Earlier that evening, I’d been glad for the distraction of making a sample batch of chamomile and oat soap for little Willa. Ironic when everything about our family situation made me feel dirty.

I loved my niece’s name, though. Had I even told my sister that?

The soap molds would set on my racks for another few days, awaiting the custom-made stamp I’d ordered online—a butterfly with the letter W—for embossing the hardened soaps. Someday I’d teach Willa to make soaps. We’d dye them bright colors and cast them in funky molds. Of course, we’d start with a melt-and-pour process so she couldn’t get hurt from the lye. Amanda would insist on that precaution—probably forever.

I should call my sister to apologize for coming down on her so hard. She wasn’t completely wrong about my hypocrisy. I’ve never had to make decisions that affected an unborn life—unless you counted the baby-soap ingredients, which were hardly significant.

For weeks after my dad’s passing, I’d struggled to choose which pants to wear, much less manage life-altering decisions. While Lyle’s departure made me want to celebrate, my sister was grieving a huge loss. Just as I had not appreciated Max’s attempts to expedite my mourning, my sister didn’t need me to tell her how to feel. More important, she deserved my faith that she’d eventually come around to do right, like she always did.