the not-telling, for making you ask about the father over and over while I gave you nothing. Let me explain, because you deserve to understand, even if it’s too late for me to explain it to your face.
The father’s name was Michael. I loved him, Mom. Not a silly teenage thing — I loved him the way you told me you loved Dad, the real way, the whole way. We had one summer. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.
And then he died. In August. Before I even knew for sure I was pregnant.
I didn’t tell you who the father was because I couldn’t say his name out loud without falling apart, and if I’d told you he was dead, you’d have made me grieve him openly, and I wasn’t strong enough for that. I needed to carry the baby and carry the grief privately,
