But this might be a good distraction. My entire life has turned upside down in a matter of minutes. The farther away I wanted to get from Ethan, the closer we are now tied together.
We walked down the street, and I notice the antique shop she mentioned. There’s a foreclosure sign on it. I catch a glimpse of myself in the dirty glass window, and my hand touches my cheek as I realize something.
Helen Wilder saw the marks on my face the moment she arrived but chose to say nothing. I recall the protective way in which her hand had brushed against the marks, a quiet anger in her eyes.
I wonder how much she knows. Or if she knows anything.
But she seems to have decided to embrace me either way, and that realization is both terrifying and comforting at the same time.
CHAPTER 15
NATALIE
There’sa reason why I never gave my mother my address, even though she wanted it for the longest time. I don't know how she managed to find my address now after all these years but seeing her standing in front of my door, reminded me of the consequences of what this knowledge could bring.
Deep inside, a part of me had always been fearful that if my brother asked, she would give him my address. If I had remembered at the fundraiser that there was a chance my brother would be able to see the photographs taken, I would have done something. But now, if my mother has seen them, it’s very likely Lucas has also seen them.
And that strikes fear in my heart.
That night five years ago, I had been so distraught. For the first time, I had found myself reaching out to my brother. Sobbing, my heart breaking, I told him what happened. I expected comfort and anger on my behalf.
I hadn’t expected him to show up and begin beating me, calling me all sorts of horrendous things. I don’t even rememberall of them, the shock and the pain blanking me out. But I do remember his promises as the police dragged him off me that he would finish the job, that he couldn’t have a stain like me in the family.
I thought my mother would protect me. No matter how she felt towards me, I was still her child. But the nurse told me she only showed up once I woke up.
And even then, she had been armed with threats.
I did what she asked. My entire survival was on the line. She had access to all my bank accounts because it was the trust fund my grandparents had set up for me that was helping fund my living and college expenses.
It was only once I was discharged that I discovered not only had she made me homeless, but she had emptied out my bank accounts and cut off access to the trust fund. I was never allowed to have my own bank account. I wasn't allowed to access any of my accounts without asking her first. It's only now I realize how controlling that behavior was.
I still remember the feeling as I stood in front of my building, not even able to walk properly, and realizing I had nothing. It was the doorman who helped me get to the shelter. It was the people at the shelter who helped me finish my thesis by providing me with a laptop. They helped me apply for jobs.
Sometimes I wonder how broken I have to be to let my mother back into my life, how desperate for her love and affection.
It’s been a week since the visit to the gynecologist. A quick blood test came back with the same results. Helen was ecstatic, but I just felt numb.
It seems like I’m losing control of my life.
I want to blame Ethan. But it was my idea to sleep with him. So how can it be his fault?
If anything, I shouldn’t have been so impulsive. I should’ve used protection. I should have…
I want to feel sorry for myself, but that’s not going to help me out of my situation. If Helen was not aware of my pregnancy, I might have come up with a plan. I could have applied for a job in another state and just left. Or at least I could have considered it even if I hadn’t done it.
But she knows, and whether Ethan wants this baby or not, I don’t think he’s going to tolerate me running away with his child.
I remember the conversation we had at the fair. When I mentioned wanting children, he had been more than receptive.
I glance down at my phone beside me on the park bench. The crisp September breeze ruffles through the trees around me, their leaves just beginning to show hints of autumn color. I haven’t had the strength to call him.
I have to do it.
But every time I pick up the phone, I hesitate.
It’s been a month since the trip to Chicago. He’s not reached out to me, not even to acknowledge my resignation. My hands curl in the material of my shirt. Has he finally washed his hands of me? I try not to think about the ring that his mother mentioned. My brain can’t jump that far right now. It can’t make the connection.
Leaning back on the bench, I watch the children run around the playground, their laughter carried on the wind. The late September sunlight filters through the leaves above, casting dappled shadows across the worn wooden slats beneath me, the scent of wet, aged leaves carrying the first hint of autumn's approach. I don’t know why I came to this place. It’s close to the office.
