The Truth About Unspeakable Things by Emily Myers (people reading books txt) 📗

“I don’t mean to pry but was Julian not able to come or did you not ask him?” she asks.

I pop my last fry into my mouth and contemplate my response, or rather, why she feels the need to ask such a question.

“I’m not sure why that matters,” I respond.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t,” my mom says. She moves her eyes to her shoes as if thinking about her next words. “I just . . . I realize that what I said about Julian, after first meeting him, was a bit harsh. And I’m hoping you didn’t not invite him because of me.”

I’m taken aback. Never in my life has my mom apologized for something, let alone on behalf of my love life. Is she dying?

I wipe my mouth and turn to face her. “Mom, what’s going on? You’re being really nice and it’s kind of confusing me,” I admit.

“Well, gee, thanks,” she says with a smile. We both laugh.

I bite my lip and tell her the truth, not about why or how we broke up, but just that we did.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say. I want to say me too, but don’t. That would only force me to have to give a deeper explanation of what happened between us, and it’s impossible to discuss without discussing Beaux. She still doesn’t know the truth about what happened.

My mom stands from her seat and brushes out the wrinkles in her dress.

“Well, we should be heading down for Eva’s rehearsal,” she says. “Your dress is hanging in the armoire as is your gown for this evening.”

“Gown?” I ask.

“Yes, your sister has opted for black-tie formal,” she says. “I did my best to pick out the shortest heels I could find that were still tall enough to be considered heels. I know how much you hate them.”

“I do. Thanks, Mom,” I say.

I hand her my plate and empty glass. She takes them and heads for the door.

What the hell was that? Either my mom had a personality transplant or . . . “Emma,” my mom says. She turns to face me, and her eyes are sad.

“Yeah, Mom,” I ask. I straighten my back to look alert.

“I’m sorry about everything with Ezra,” she tells me.

Woah.

“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” I tell her. My face crinkles in confusion. Where did this come from? Why is she telling me this now?

“You don’t need to say anything, just listen,” she says. My mother places the plate and empty glass on the floor and once more sits on the bed. “Come here,” she says. I do.

My mother takes my hands in hers and what comes next changes everything.

“When your father and I first met, I was nearly out of college,” she says. “And my mother, she . . .” She pauses then. “Let’s just say, coming home without a husband wasn’t an option.”

“What? What do you mean?” I ask.

“It just . . . it was a different time,” my mother reveals. “And my mother was very old-fashioned. And that’s not to say I married your father for the wrong reasons. No. I . . . I loved him,” she says. I raise my brow at her use of past tense. “I love him,” she corrects herself. “But . . . there was a certain pressure, even more than normal, to make the marriage work,” she says. “And so, that’s what I’ve done all these years. I’ve made the marriage work. And, in doing so, I . . . I’ve done some horrible things,” she admits.

“Mom?”

“The greatest of which is tearing you and Ezra apart,” she reveals.

I exhale and relax into the pillows on my bed.

“Your father has always had this vision of what your life would be like, yours and Eva’s,” she tells me. “But with you being the firstborn, there was just a level of pride your father took in you that he didn’t with Eva or anyone else, for that matter,” she explains. “He . . . he had visions of what job you’d have, the house you’d live in, and who’d you marry. And those visions didn’t involve Ezra St. Germain, or the damaged reputation that being with him would undoubtedly cause,” she says, exhaling.

“To preserve your father’s pride, I had Ezra arrested. I had his name removed from the graduation program,” she admits. “And I know it sounds crazy. I’m a grown woman and I had a choice, of course. But, Emma, it didn’t feel that way. If I would’ve let things between you and Ezra progress, your father would have viewed me as a failure. This whole town would have. And then, where would I be?” she asks me. “He’s a powerful man, Emma. If he chose to leave me, then . . . I’d have nothing,” she reveals. “But, perhaps, even greater than my desire to please your father was the resentment towards you that grew because of it,” she says.

“What?” I ask. My mom resented me? Why? How?

My mom exhales. Her rosy cheeks burn even brighter as she reveals her great shame.

“You were always his favorite,” she reveals. “And, I guess, somewhere deep down, I always knew, I was—am replaceable. But you? You are irreplaceable to your father,” she tells me. “You are the one he’s always loved. I’m just the one who paints the pretty picture he can sell to the people of Presley.”

“Mom, no,” I say, shaking my head. “You are more than that. And, Dad, he . . .”

How am I supposed to tell her the truth about Dad? How is she supposed to accept it? I can’t tell her, not yet, not until . . .

That’s when I notice, the wrinkles around her eyes seem to deepen in sadness. Her hands feel frail as they hold mine. Her cheeks are hollow. For it to be the weekend of her daughter’s wedding, you’d think she would’ve gone overboard on the Botox and self-care, but no.

“Mom, what’s going on? Why are you telling me all this now?” I ask.

My mom hesitates and lets my hands go. She takes a deep breath and, “Your father and I are getting a divorce.”

“What?” It’s