Chapter 8
Brianna packed a suitcase that night.
She went to stay with her sister.
Two days later, she sent me a message.
I'm speaking to a lawyer. I don't know what happens to my marriage, but I know I won't build one on lies.
I didn't celebrate.
I knew what it felt like to discover that someone you trusted wasn't who you thought they were.
I simply replied:
You deserve honesty. Whatever you decide, make sure it's your decision.
Meanwhile, the lending company confirmed that the application had been closed and marked unauthorized.
I filed a formal identity-theft report and kept my credit frozen.
I also sent my parents one final written notice: they were not authorized to use my personal information, apply for credit in my name, or contact me about loans.
I asked them to communicate through my attorney about the attempted application.
Then I stopped answering.
No arguments.
No explanations.
No more opportunities to make me feel guilty.
Three weeks later, my mother appeared on my doorstep.
I knew it was her before I opened the security camera app.
She stood outside wearing a beige coat, clutching her handbag with both hands.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
For a moment, I felt that familiar tug.
Maybe she was sorry.
Maybe losing access to us had finally made her understand.
Then she knocked again.
"Please," she called. "I know you're inside."
I opened the door but kept the screen door locked.
"What do you want, Mom?"
She swallowed.
"Your father is very upset."
I said nothing.
"Jason's marriage is falling apart."
Still nothing.
"People are asking questions."
There it was.
People.
Not Layla.
Not the hospital.
Not the fact that my father had threatened a sick child.
People were asking questions.
My mother wiped her eyes.
"You're going to let your brother lose his wife over a misunderstanding?"
I looked at her for a long time.
Then I asked, "Have you come to apologize to Layla?"
She blinked.
"Of course I'm sorry she was sick."
"That's not what I asked."
Her mouth tightened.
"I don't know what you want me to say."
I glanced toward the living room.
Layla was sitting on the carpet, arranging stuffed animals around a pretend tea table.
She was wearing yellow pajamas.
Her cheeks had color again.
She was laughing softly to herself.
My heart almost burst with gratitude.
I looked back at my mother.