Megan Wheless
She stood at the altar and took a deep breath. She noticed how differently the stained glass window looked through her squinted, teary eyes. The minister nodded at her. This was her cue. “Til death do us part,” he repeated again.
She willed herself to repeat after him. “Til death do us part,” she whispered. She glanced at the black Bible in the minister’s hands, a weighty tome dating back to her grandmother’s grandmother. She glanced at her soon to be husband who was looking straight ahead. She blinked and a tear streamed down her cheek. When she looked up, she noticed each triangle, square, and trapezoid shape of the stained glass window interlocked and formed the image of Christ in a blue and red robe holding out his hands in peace. The white cross gleamed behind him.
Next, the exchange of rings. Her fingers trembled as she slid the gold band over his fat finger. “With this ring, I thee wed,” the minister stated. She mumbled the words. In the course of her twenty-two years, she imagined this moment would be different somehow. That the man standing before her would be her prince. The minister, a sovereign representation of God. Instead, she noticed the mid-morning sun’s filtered light through the stained glass window. The limestone walls and the felt drapings with cut out phrases of Bible verses on either side of the altar encased the three of them. Her white dress was a lie, a thrift store purchase at the last minute. The tears teetering at the edge of her eyelids blurred and the altar window became a water-colored, pastel prism of glass.
“May the Lord bless you and keep you,” the minister announced. His hand outstretched over their heads.
“Amen,” they called.
“Amen,” the small congregation responded.
She turned and faced the whole lot of them. Her parents held their hands to their chests and smiled. Friends and cousins and distant family relations clapped politely then went back to indiscreetly checking their phones or gathering their belongings to wait for their cue to file out of the wooden pews. The organist began the recessional hymn.
Her new husband’s parents stood and sidestepped out of their pew and walked down the side aisle. She watched as they hurried towards the back of the church and noticed how the red door glistened when they pushed it open and sunlight streamed inside. She fought every urge to race down the aisle, fling the door open, and push past the callous pair and climb on top of a revving motorcycle driven by a handsome man dressed in black leather. She must’ve been more lonesome than she thought to dream of a cliched escape like that.
“Don’t worry about them,” her new husband whispered into her ear. “They have to be at the airport earlier than planned.” He squeezed her hand and they walked together down the aisle. Mr. and Mrs. now. The mood lightened as the guests fell in step behind them and then later wished them well in the receiving line. She thanked her sister as she wiped away a smudge of mascara that had dripped at the corner of her eye.
At the reception hall, she found herself famished and stuffed her face full of mashed potatoes, doughy chicken and noodles, and swirled her corn in the gravy. She tore off a crispy piece of fried chicken and dipped it in the potatoes before sucking off the salty flavor and chewing until her mouth swelled. “Things might not be so bad after all,” she rationalized to herself as she scooped another layer of mashed potatoes, corn, and coleslaw into her mouth. As she glanced around the darkened VFW her father had rented out for them, she saw her groom standing at an electronic slot machine smoking cigars with two of his friends. She could let herself feel free from his judgmental eye. He wouldn’t know that she was on her second plate and if he did, maybe he would excuse her gluttony given that it was their wedding day after all.
She was content for the moment. The joint her sister had sneaked her when they waited their turn for the photo shoot near the bushes on the church grounds had quelled her nerves. She smiled to herself. She was a grown-ass married woman now. Yet, in her smugness she wrestled with the truth of what she had done. Married out of rebellion. Married to prove to her mother that she was an adult and didn’t need to be told how to act, to think, to live, to be. Married to escape criticism for choosing to go to a nearby community college after high school and dropping out after the bills her live-in boyfriend, now husband, had accumulated on their joint credit card and bank account had piled into insurmountable debt. At the peak of her rebellion, she had said “yes” to him in hopes her mother would cry and swear to behave better. She wished her mother wouldn’t criticize her so much. How she wished she could get more than conditional love from her, and only that when it was convenient or served an immediate need. She didn’t have the words or the will to tell her mother her wishes, and now found herself coloring inside the lines of someone else’s scripted life.
Momentarily, the music stopped. The DJ announced for the bride and father of the bride to come to the dance floor for the father-daughter dance. She was the same height as her father. He was of medium build. Her mother and sister stood two inches taller than him, but she always liked that the two of them literally saw eye-to-eye. When she told him she was engaged, he clearly was upset. He squinted his eyes and pulled up his glasses and rubbed his nose. He sat down at the kitchen table while her mother berated her for her stupid choices in life, this one being the dumbest and most embarrassing one so far, according to her mother. “Are you pregnant?” she had demanded. “Because if you are, I swear I won’t lie for you on that one. I’m tired of lying to my friends at work and church about you. They still think you’re at the university and only coming down once or twice a week to work at the grocery store to save more money. I won’t lie for you if you’re pregnant, though. We can take care of that quickly if need be.”
She wasn’t pregnant of course. On that they were in agreement, a baby would be disastrous. Her father, though, didn’t question her choices. He simply sunk down in his chair and stayed silent on the matter. Then, after her mother’s tirade, he told her he would pay for the reception and help out in any way he could. “If this is what you really want?” he tacked on at the end. Now, as they stood together on the dance floor, she looked up at him, and scrunched her face and smiled. Her pale, cherubic cheeks like delicate shelves holding her blue eyes. She put her arms around his neck and hugged him. Then, he put his arm around her waist and picked up her hand in his. The strobe lights stopped turning. A single spotlight lit them up as Patsy Cline’s song “Crazy” wafted through the speakers.
“Mrs. Faber,” he said as he twirled her once around. “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Mmm hmmm,” she replied softly, afraid that a tear might well up and splatter on his tie. She glanced at him before putting her chin on his shoulder and willing the song to be over. She could see her aunts and uncles staring at them and side talking with their cake forks and punch glasses poised in mid air. She and her father turned slow circles in the middle of the room.
“As long as you’re happy, my darling, I’m happy,” he cooed. He spun her around and under his arm like they used to do on Sunday afternoons while listening to the radio in the family’s small kitchen after the stressful and obligatory few hours at church followed by Sunday school. A requirement their mother ruled as “good old fashioned family time.”
She kissed his cheek when the music ended and they took a little bow in good humor before her father strolled back to his table and blended in with his siblings. She gathered the ends of her dress, bunched with tulle and lace eyelets in the classic Bo-Ho chic she and her sister loved so much, and started towards the small table where the wedding party was at. Her sister was only eighteen but had somehow managed to talk someone into sneaking her a beer. She swigged the last bit and then clanked the bottle on the table. “Hey sis,” she slurred as she tried to stand up. “Where’s your hubby?”
“Over there,” she pointed. He and his friends had moved towards the bar and were now doing root beer shooters from frosted mugs. Cheers fueled by testosterone competed with the electronic dance music now blaring from the DJ’s turntable. She scanned the room and noticed the guest number was smaller than at the start of the afternoon’s celebration. The floral centerpieces appeared wilted and sparkling confetti and scraps of food littered the tables. Young children slid across the dance floor and ran circles around their parents who were gathered in small groups throughout the reception hall. Their mother sat primly at the head of her table holding court. Her ankles were crossed and she was sitting straight in her chair with her hands folded neatly in her lap. A few of her mother’s church friends were leaning towards her listening and sharing in the gossip.
Her sister stood up and walked over to her, bumping into her and clasping her elbow to stay upright.
“Gina,” her sister whispered, her warm breath tickling her ear and the nape of her neck. “Come with me to the bathroom.”
Without question, she followed her little sister into the women’s restroom. The music echoed with a dull thud when they closed the wooden door and turned the lock. She looked in the mirror and saw a few long strands of her blonde-streaked hair had come loose and framed her face. A bead of sweat formed on her upper lip and the lace covering her bosom clung to her chest. She turned on the faucet, ran her hands under the cold water, and dabbed her fingers across her cheeks and forehead and then her underarms before turning off the water. She pulled two paper towels from the dispenser and shoved one under each armpit to soak up her sweat.
“Listen, Gina,” her sister began, tears trickling down her chin. “I don’t know if it’s because I’m drunk or what, but I need to tell you something.” She sat on the toilet, her elbows on her thighs, chin resting on her hands. She slumped forward and then looked up again.
“Oh my God! What’s wrong?” Gina asked. “What could possibly be wrong on my wedding day?!” The look of distress on her sister’s face stopped her anger and pettiness in midstep.
“I’m pregnant,” her sister said flatly.
She stood there and let her sister’s words reach into her mind and settle down into the pit of her stomach. The word rolled around inside of her and she let it come back up, settling in her throat like burning acid. “Pregnant?” she coughed the word out like it was bile. “How? When?”
“If you don’t know how, then we really have serious problems,” her sister said sarcastically. Her sister raised her eyebrow like she used to as a child whenever her big sister annoyed her.
She looked at her baby sister, then back into the mirror. She squinted her eyes like she did earlier in the church, hoping to soften the edges of her reality and the harsh lighting in the small room with pink walls and tan and blue wallpaper border. She turned back around to face her sister. An electric, panicked energy sizzled between the two of them then disappeared.
After a few seconds, her sister spoke. “It was with this guy named James. He’s in my art class at school. He comes every morning from the Catholic school since they don’t have advanced art classes there. Anyway, he doesn’t know. And I don’t want him to. Please, please, please, don’t tell mom, ok? I couldn’t stand it if she knew. You know how she gets? I mean, look at how she handled your rushed engagement and all?” Her words tumbled out of her mouth and landed like bouncing pebbles that scattered across the floor.
“What do you want me to do about it?” She knew, of course, that her sister wanted her to figure out some way to get her out of this mess. That’s how it always went with the two of them. Little sister made just as many, if not more, mistakes and bad decisions as she did, and she was expected to swoop in and clean up the mess before it got to their mother. Or, if their mother did find out, it was her duty to take their mother’s criticism and wrath head on. It had seemed easier that way, although that was a lie, too. Nothing was ever really easy in that household. Anxiety wove its way across her chest. She was filled with anger and resentment and then just as quickly, her brain snapped into “problem solving mode.”
“Is it too late for an abortion?” she asked. “I could take you. You’re 18 now so you don’t need anyone’s consent.” She felt relieved that she arrived at that conclusion so quickly.
“I was hoping,” her sister said, “that I could come and live with you and Tyler after I graduated. I’m graduating early, remember? I only have another month of school. I’ll have the baby in late spring. I’d just tell people I’m taking a gap semester and then I could easily start college in the fall.”
“You’re not serious, are you? You know that mom would find out. We only live about an hour away. She’ll come to see us.” A feeling of unease squeezed around her stomach when she looked into her sister’s eyes. Instantly, she intuited what her sister was implying. “You want me to pretend like it’s my baby, don’t you?”
“I’ve thought this out. It makes sense. People already think you two got married because you’re knocked up. And, by the time mom finds out it’s mine, I’ll be far enough along that she would have to tell other people that it’s yours just to save face. She’ll let me stay with you and I won’t be a problem. I’ll be like a maid for you two. I’ll do the dishes, your laundry, I’ll run your errands until I start showing. . .I mean, if you’d like, I’ll even take online classes in the summer and take care of the baby when it’s born. . .”
She said nothing as her sister continued to plead her case. She backed up against the sink and leaned her weight onto the cold porcelain. Her anger shot through her like lightning and then simmered into sparks of indignation. Her sister’s excuses and manipulations sounded just like the false advertisements and promises their mother made whenever she needed or wanted them to go along with one of her schemes or alternative plots to their family life. Gina had given up on her father’s protestations a long time ago, seeing them as empty threats that eventually dwindled into silence, and then later into small vices like the packet of cigarettes he hid in the empty coffee container on his workroom bench in the garage. There was something in her that wanted to stop all of this family deceit that attempted to make them appear like the scripted good, middle class, Christian Americans who baked apple pies on the weekends, volunteered at their local charities and town events, and attended church on a regular basis. Yet, here she was, a few hours into a sham marriage that she chose out of a rebellious attempt to make her mother look bad. What would it cost her to carry the weight of the pregnancy gossip to full term and prove others right, and her mother wrong, when she showed up around her hometown with a baby on her hip?
“Gina?” her sister whimpered as she stood up next to her. “What do you say? Will you do this for me?”
Of course she would. They both knew she would.
She nodded her head ever so slightly and slipped an arm around her sister’s waist. “Come on, let’s go back out. People will wonder what happened to us. I’m the bride, you know?”
“But, what about the baby? What are we going to do? When do you think we can tell mom and dad?” Her sister’s voice wobbled.
“We’ll figure it out later. Until then, hold off on the booze and the smoking, ok?” She felt her sister nod slightly as she pressed her forehead up against hers and hugged her gently before releasing her. They headed back out to the reception hall and toward the wedding party table. The music had slowed down and the lead singer of Lonestar crooned the lyrics to their popular wedding song “Amazed.”
Someone had turned on more lights near the guest book and wedding gifts table and a few of their aunts were milling around, snooping at the presents and comparing their purchases with each other. She squeezed her sister’s hand and walked to the bar. She would eventually have to make small talk with her husband’s boyhood friends and now seemed like a good enough time as any.
“Here’s my little wifey!” her husband shouted as he pulled her to him and edged her closer to the center of the group. She felt her midriff press into the bar and instinctively she placed her hands over her stomach, protecting the fake baby inside of her. She decided little gestures like these over the next few days or weeks would possibly key those around her into their suspicions and when it came time to reveal that she was pregnant, people would pretend to be surprised and happy for her.
But of course she knew her mother would figure out she was lying and it would only be a matter of time that she learned the truth. Would her mother approve of her early deceit to protect the family’s reputation? It would be one less lie her mother had to invent and she may even be proud that her daughter thought to head off the other daughter’s shame by taking control of the situation early on. She glanced over at her mother. Her mother kept her hands on her lap, and she was laughing at something a friend had just said. No doubt she probably would later say something biting in private about that same woman.
Like it or not, she knew she was capable of duplicity just like her mother. It was at this realization she began to comprehend her predicament: to pretend the baby was hers meant she was unlikely to reveal her mother for the abusive, critical, intolerable person she is. Their mother was like a parasitic worm who lived inside her and her sister’s brain and fed on their emotions. Gina resented the fact that fear always seemed to be the main course.
She refused the beer that her husband had just offered her and after his insistence wore off, he ignored her and went back to talking loudly with his friends about “Pizzagate” and Hillary’s emails. Her anger grew inside of her. Even if she did agree to pretend to be the baby’s mother, and enjoyed having a little person rely solely on her, she would eventually grow tired of the lie, not to mention the late night feedings, the diaper changes, and the inevitable boredom of staring at a baby for hours on end while her husband insisted she be a stay at home mother. Would her mother be softer with her, somehow? More nurturing than when she was a child or teen? It seemed possible that they would bond and her mother could share her tips and tricks of taking care of a colicky baby, for example, or they could go on fun shopping sprees buying tiny onesies and cute outfits that made the baby look like a doll. She slipped away from her husband and his group and absent-mindedly touched her stomach again as she made her way over to her mother’s table.
The last song on her requested playlist came to an end. The DJ announced that he would leave his cards at the entrance table. “Remember me for your next event. Peace out!” The microphone squealed and made a rustling noise as he jostled it back into its holder.
The remaining guests’ chatter sounded louder and more distinct now. She could hear snippets of their conversations. Her aunts were arguing about which family member died when. Her cousins were discussing the latest pop star’s faux pas. Her husband’s friend was listing the names of senators who apparently ran a child sex ring. Her mother was gossiping about a former co-worker. She put her hand on her back, imagining what it would be like to experience back pains. She also began to wonder if pregnant women walked differently or was that only when they were large and a few weeks from giving birth?
“Here’s the lovely bride,” her mother said and took her hand. She squeezed it tightly and pulled her toward an open chair.
“You look radiant,” one of the women remarked. “And the chocolate cake was delightful.”
“We’re so glad you invited us, Lynda,” another woman said to her mother. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
She felt their eyes on her. Had they looked at her midsection? Were they trying to determine if she was showing. She puffed her belly out and looked down at it. She was so full from the meal earlier that it was easy to make it stick out. For added effect, she placed her hand on her belly and gently rubbed it in a casual sort of way.
She waited for them to say something, but her mother was the one in control of the conversation. “Sit up straight, dear, you are still a lady, remember?” She patted her hand and leaned in toward the women. “Gina and I found her dress at Nieman Marcus’s. It was half off, can you believe that? Still pricey, of course, but still. . .half off!”
The women all cooed and a few reached out to touch her skirt and another woman fingered the lace at her shoulder. It was a Nieman Marcus dress, true enough, but it was at a second hand thrift store a town away. They found it shoved at the back of the rack in the large warehouse style building. It was wrapped in plastic and smelled of potpourri and moth balls. Her mother even took it to an out of town dry cleaner and swore she would make Gina buy her own dress if she told anyone its origins.
She could tell them all the truth now and watch their faces morph into disbelief. It may be fun to watch her mother fall from grace in front of them or watch her struggle to twist her words and retell the story quickly so she came out looking like the winner and garner their admiration again. Her mother could easily spin Gina’s words and say it was a misunderstanding or claim that she purchased the dress at a high end consignment store. She could definitely put a chink in her mother’s armor, for sure, but the battle would be short lived and she would pay a higher price for her betrayal later when they were alone.
“Mom,” she said. “I’ve been feeling a little nauseous lately. What can I take for that?” she asked innocently. It was time to start laying more of the groundwork if she was going to go through with the baby-switching scheme.
“Hmmm?” her mother asked distractedly. “It’s probably just leftover nerves from planning the wedding, honey. Your tummy will settle down.” Again, she patted her daughter’s hand and tried to steer the conversation back to more comfortable territory. Recently her mother had received her realtor’s license and was itching to make her first sale and loved to regale people with stories of showing houses that cost a half a million or more.
“Yes, you’re probably right, but my breasts have been achy a lot lately. You know, kinda like right before you get your period. But. . .” she let her words dangle there. Surely one of the women would take the bait.
“Nerves, dear,” her mother said more cautiously. There was a warning tone to her voice and a fierceness flared inside her eyes. “Why don’t you go check on your father and sister and see if they’re about ready to leave. We still need to put the table decorations away in the bins. Lots to do, you know?”
“Oh dear! Look at the time,” one of the women remarked. “Lynda, can we help you clean up?” They all focused their attention on attending to her mother. Their need to be useful and please her instantly had whipped them into worker bees serving their queen. Her mother had that effect on people.
“Oh, you’re so kind. That would be very helpful.” Her mother scooted her chair back and stood up and the other women followed suit. “Gina, go, please. Check on your father and sister. I don’t want to be here all evening. My feet are killing me in these shoes.”
She did as she was told. She could tell by her mother’s tone of voice that there would be yelling in private. For now, she had unsettled her enough to be pushed out of the conversation. She looked around the reception hall. The lights were on now, giving the tables, the decorations, the laminate wood paneling, and the shutters that divided the dining hall from the kitchen a harsh edge to them. She squinted her eyes and tried to make everything blurry and soft again like she did in the church. But it didn’t work this time. She couldn’t conjure any tears.
About an hour later, when the last guests had said their goodbyes, Gina and her family were all standing there in the middle of the dance floor waiting for their mother to return from the restroom. Tyler was drunk and could barely stand and was leaning up against the wall and the food serving nook. Her father fumbled with his boutonniere and her sister incessantly scrolled through her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen shooting off texts every few seconds.
“What are you all staring at? Pick up some boxes and let’s move,” their mother growled when she came out of the bathroom. “Tyler, get in the van, now. I swear you are all hopeless. It’s like I have to do everything myself.”
They jumped into action and Tyler quickly sobered up enough to walk himself outside. Gina hoped he wouldn’t pee out there. She didn’t want a repeat of that night her mother caught him peeing in her flower garden. There had been a lot of screaming and threats to call the cops and insults that he was a disgrace and her daughter was a slut for dating someone like him.
Gina threw the last of the wilted flowers in the large trash can near one of the boxes. She wondered if a pregnant woman should be doing any heavy lifting in the first trimester. She folded the box’s lid and determined that it would be more authentic if she scooted it with her foot to the door and had her dad load it in his truck. There was something about the thought of pretending to be pregnant that made her feel powerful. Things could be different in her life, if only for a short while, and others would cater to her needs. And when her sister started to show and their mother found out, maybe they would both be grateful enough that she was willing to take on this burden and play the role that they would treat her with the respect she felt she deserved.
“Gina!” her mother bellowed. “For Christ’s sake move your lazy ass and pick up the box. We don’t have time for your daydreams. Your day is over. You had the spotlight. I’m tired and I want to go home. Get a move on it.”
“Bitch,” she whispered under her breath.
“What did you say?” her mother stopped and flipped her head around. She held the door open with her hip and glared as Gina picked up the box and walked past her. Her mother slapped her on the side of the head. “Your hairdo looks terrible. I told you that style wouldn’t last. Move, missy.”
She turned around and glared at her mother, the fear and anger rising inside of her. Her face flushed and her nostrils flared. She could easily hit her or knock her mother down if she wanted to. Her fingers clasped the edges of the box and she clenched her jaw to maintain her control and then stepped fully into the chilly autumn evening.
Her mother brushed past her and began barking orders at her father and sister. Gina breathed a sigh of relief that they were now in her line of fire instead.
The boxes were all stacked in her father’s truck and her sister slid into the passenger seat as her dad approached her and gave her another long hug. “Be safe. Mom’s going to drive you guys to the hotel. Make Tyler take a few aspirin and drink some water before he goes to bed. He’s going to have quite the hangover tomorrow. But I’m glad you kids had fun.”
“Bye dad,” she said and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She waved at her sister who mouthed “Thank you” through the window.
Reluctantly, Gina turned and headed towards her mother’s minivan. Her legs felt like lead and she felt a trembling in her calves, sure signs that her fear was beginning to take hold.
She opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Your husband is passed out in the back and he stinks,” her mother admonished. “I hope you two are happy with yourselves. The booze bill alone is going to be outrageous. I told your father we didn’t need to have an open bar. But he does too much for you as it is. Don’t forget to put on your seatbelt.” She put the car in gear and backed out of the parking lot.
Gina drew herself inward and steeled herself for more criticisms her mother was gearing up to unload. Thankfully they were going to be staying at the honeymoon suite in the nearby Holiday Inn so they could have a meal tomorrow with her family and open wedding presents. She could endure a fifteen minute car ride as opposed to an hour long one to the town where she and Tyler lived. Three stoplights later and not a word was uttered between the three of them. Tyler’s head was propped up on the head rest and he appeared passed out. Gina risked a sideways glance at her mother, whose hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. Her mother’s silent indifference unnerved her because it meant Gina didn’t know if she was safe for now or if her mother was strategizing a new way to hurt her. The unpredictability of her mother’s moods had always left her and her sister and their dad in a perpetual state of alert.
When they arrived at the hotel, Tyler woke up and grumbled about needing to pee. Fortunately, her mother had their room key in her bag and handed it to him. He rolled out of the van and stumbled inside towards the lobby. “He’ll be fine,” her mother said in a honey dipped tone. “Besides, I need to talk to you alone, Gina.”
Gina froze. Adrenaline began pumping throughout her body and her fingers became cold and her armpits began to sweat. Alone like this she had no defense against her mother. All her life being alone was a darkness that haunted her. Alone was where bad things were said and feelings stripped away. Alone was never where she wanted to be but also where she found herself most of the time.
“I know your sister is pregnant,” her mother began. She held up her hand to stop Gina’s protest. “I found a pregnancy test at the bottom of the trash a few weeks ago.”
“Oh,” Gina exhaled. “Wow.” She felt her buttocks tense and a sudden urge to pee.
“I was wondering,” her mother began, “If you two had talked yet?”
In the pause that followed those words, she knew that her mother and sister had conspired against her. Knew that the plan for her to be the scapegoat was in the makings as the three of them planned for the wedding and spent countless hours shopping for party favors, tasting the cake, paying the caterer, and buying their makeup. She knew they had banked on her need to solve their problems. They counted on the fact that her loyalty to them was greater than her self worth.
This was her chance. She only had to say “no” and not agree to go along with the scheme. She took a deep breath and steadied her nerves. She had agreed to a marriage. Had agreed to the dress her mother chose. Had agreed to the cake and the party favors and table decorations. But, she wasn’t going to agree to this. Her imagination had gotten the best of her back at the reception. Her growing need to pretend she was special, and could be a mother that could take care of a baby, was irrational. She should protect herself. She should take her stand.
Right at the critical moment, when the words were beginning to form themselves in her throat, her mother pushed a strand of Gina’s hair behind her ear. Her touch was so soft. So loving. A kind gesture. She cupped Gina’s chin in her hand, her manicured fingernails poking ever so slightly into Gina’s soft skin. A smile broadened across her face. “Gina, my love, I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you lately. I just wanted your wedding day to be perfect, that’s all. You’re my oldest. My baby. I’m so glad you had a nice day. Promise me you will think about that and all the sacrifices I’ve made for you both over the years.”
Her mother coated her words with buttery overtones and placed her hand onto Gina’s cheek . “I love you. Do you love me, my sweet, sweet girl?” she whispered. She slid her hand off and Gina felt her fingernails scrape against her skin before her mother withdrew her hand.
“I do,” Gina said as she placed her hand on top of her belly and imagined saying the same words to her child one day, and meaning it.