her daughter’s shoulders seem to melt into the bed at her mother’s touch?
They stayed that way for a while, Kylee’s sobs lessening. Angela found herself humming “Hush, Little Baby,” the tune she used to sing to a very colicky infant fifteen years ago as she rocked and bounced, rocked and bounced, until her feet ached and her arms grew weary with the girl’s weight.
Finally, her daughter rolled half over and stared up at Angela, pushing wetness away from the underside of her lids. Angela started to ask what was wrong, but a small voice inside urged her to be silent and continue humming. So she did.
Kylee shifted herself upright and nestled among her pillows against her bed’s headboard, hugging her knees to her chest. “Ethan was at the bowling alley. With another girl.”
Angela held back a wince. Was Kylee about to let her have it for breaking her and Ethan up? What was the right reaction? Would her daughter respond with anger if Angela said she was better off without him? That he wasn’t worthy of her?
Perhaps sympathy was the best alternative to those thoughts. “I’m sorry, hon.”
Kylee picked at her cuticles, then chewed on her thumbnail, her eyes not meeting Angela’s. “I guess he didn’t really love me after all.” Her lips trembled.
Oh, forget it. Angela couldn’t stand by in silence and watch her daughter suffer, constantly afraid of saying the wrong thing. She reached for Kylee’s hand, surprised when her daughter didn’t pull away. “That’s his loss, then.”
“I just thought . . . I mean, he said such nice things.” Another tear coursed down Kylee’s cheek. “He told me I was beautiful and that I was special. I guess I’m pretty stupid for believing him, huh?”
“Considering the fact that you are both of those things—beautiful and special, that is—no, you’re not stupid at all.” Angela snatched a tissue off the side table and pressed it into her daughter’s palm. “But the right boy will say those things and mean them. And you will never doubt that they’re true.”
“Was Dad the right boy for you, Mom?” The question sounded so small, and Kylee suddenly looked so very tender, huddled there on the purple bed, face glistening, voice scratchy, hair mussed.
Her daughter wasn’t as young as Angela kept trying to keep her. She was becoming a woman, so maybe Angela needed to start talking to her like one. And that began with honesty. Some, anyway. “Yes. I loved your father, Kylee, and he loved me. We didn’t have a perfect marriage, but I never doubted that he meant the sweet things he said.”
Not every guy would have suggested they get married when he found out the girl he’d been dating for six months was pregnant. But Wes had. He’d done the honorable thing when he could have easily reacted just like her aunt and father had. Like a lot of other guys would have.
She hadn’t thought much about that in a long time. In fact, Angela had been so focused on how he’d abandoned them in death that she’d nearly forgotten how he’d been there for her at the start of Kylee’s life. He had been a principled and trustworthy man at heart. And yes, maybe he’d gotten caught up in the adventure of thrill seeking—a midlife crisis of sorts—but underneath he’d still loved his family. Even in her anger toward him, she couldn’t deny that.
A tiny bit of warmth lit Angela’s heart.
Kylee pressed her thumb against the tissue, wearing the soft fiber down until it tore. “Then why couldn’t you tell me how you knew you loved him?” She ripped the tissue in half.
“It’s complicated, Kylee.” Angela couldn’t seem to stop the old exasperation from coming through in her tone. Because honesty could only go so far. If she told her daughter the whole truth, Kylee might surmise the part about her unexpected conception—and Angela did not want her ever wondering for one second if she was wanted. She’d had enough grief and heartache in her short life.
Her daughter sniffed, and instead of anger, her shoulders sank as if in defeat. “Please, Mom. Tell me.”
Angela rubbed her nose. “Please understand. It’s difficult for me to talk about it.”
“So you want me to be honest, but you don’t have to be?” The tissue now lay in shreds, scattered on the bedspread. “That’s not fair.”
“There’s just more to all of this than you know. More than I can tell you. I’m sorry, sweetie. I love you, but you’re still just a