Dean Whitehouser may be delusional, but we have the same shades of brown in our eyes and a similar upturn to our noses. While accepting him as my biological father is difficult, it means I’m nothing like Roy, who isn’t my father but my stepfather. More importantly, I share nothing—absolutely fucking nothing—with Jonathan.
The tormentor of my childhood. The nightmare parading asa righteous protector and the evil lurking beneath the façade of a golden halo. Not one drop of my blood is related to him.
A sharp buzzing cuts through the torrent of my thoughts. I blink and pull my phone from my pocket. I’m surprised to find it still working despite the cold, wet fabric clinging to my thighs. But then my mother’s face flashes across the screen.
I groan, silencing the call. It rings again.
I should turn it off or reject the call. Block her number. Do anything but answer it, but anger has a grip on me now. A part of me wants to hear her apologize, to understand her reasoning for being such a horrible person. So, I grit my teeth and answer.
She isn’t even looking at the screen. She’s seated at what appears to be the dean’s desk, fixing her makeup in a compact off to the side as she starts speaking.
“Jonathan and your father are already livid about your lack of commitment to this family. I’ve arranged for lunch this weekend and taken the liberty of inviting Jonathan’s friend, Jameson.”
Disbelief ripples through me at her nonchalance, as if the last hour never happened. As if I’m supposed to just forget she’s a hypocritical liar and my entire life has been a lie.
“Jonathan seems to think Jameson will still consider marrying you. If you repent for your wayward ways and return to the church.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
Her eyes finally lift, locking with mine through the screen. There’s so much rage. And all of it is directed at me.
The crescendo of my heart picks up, cold fear sliding down my spine. My mother has never been particularly loving, but I’d always thought of her as a buffer of sorts between Jonathan and my father—Roy. Not quite a wall, because god knows she’s let plenty of things through, but a small form of defense nonetheless. But now… now I realize how wrong I’ve been.
“It’s all been for you,” I say, hating the prick of tears thatcomes with my dawning clarity. “You didn’t want me to speak out because it would reflect poorly on you. Even college. When I thought you’d finally done something selfless, risked father—Roy’s anger and Jonathan’s irritation… I thought it was to support me. But it wasn’t, was it?”
She lifts her chin, every trace of tenderness vanishing as I press on.
“You paid for school so you could fuck the dean whenever you wanted. And if your husband ever questioned where you were, you could blame me.”
“Watch your mouth when you speak to me. I am your mother.”
My voice cracks around a harsh laugh.
“Stop crying,” she snaps, looking down her nose at me. “It’s unbecoming and makes your face look splotchy. And I can’t believe you’re wearing jeans. Honestly, Evie. If you don’t at least try to maintain a shred of decency, even our family name won’t be enough to get you a husband. Is that what you want? To end up ugly and alone?”
A tear drops onto my screen, but my voice is surprisingly steady when I speak. “I won’t marry him.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’ll marry whoever will have you. Whoever your brother deems appropriate.”
“He’s not my brother,” I retort, leaning into the fury rising inside me. “All this time I’ve been told I’m broken. That I need to beg for forgiveness. As if what he did to me was my fault.”
“It was,” she spits, nostrils flaring. “Itis. You’re constantly tempting them. Flaunting your body in front of your father and brother when I’m not there.”
“You’re delusional,” I breathe, shaking my head.
“Lie all you like,” she sneers. “But I know a whore when I see one.”
I hate that I flinch. Hate that she sees it. That she finds satisfaction in the way I hurt. My stomach knots as a smug grincurls across her face. And it’s in that moment I realize how much I’m willing to give up to never see her again.
It’s not a choice, really. More a truth that settles into my bones with terrifying clarity. To them, I’ll only ever be a piece on a game board. A pawn they can use and discard.
“Goodbye, Mother.”
I end the call.
With mechanical precision, I pull up her contact and block the number before she can call back. Then I do the same to the people I once called “brother” and “father.”
When it’s done, I collapse into the nearest pew, tilt my head toward the marble figure above the alter, and allow myself to purge all the pent up emotions I’ve held onto.
