29. Delia
twenty-nine
Delia
The table was set with far more care than necessary for a small family Thanksgiving. I had bought a new set of dinnerware, a far cry from the plates and cups I’d collected in my years at college. These matched, and I’d even bought cute Thanksgiving napkins to set next to every plate.
If only I could feel as polished as I felt this table looked. Instead, I sat stiffly, my hands folded in my lap, my stomach twisting with guilt.
I knew the secret I held, the pregnancy tests that I’d stuffed into a plastic bag so that no one would see them in the trash can. I knew the way Tyler had looked at me when I got home late the night before, the way he’d raised his eyebrows sleepily and said, “You are a dedicated student. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Jeremy,” before passing out again while I popped the turkey in the oven to cook overnight.
All that work, and I hadn’t even gotten it to brine properly. I just hoped that everyone would attribute it to how bad turkey was in general, dry and bland. No one would think it was my fault, and certainly not because I was out all night meeting Robert’s daughter and listening to him pour his heart out.
I glanced across the table at Tyler, who was focused on carving the turkey, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked up briefly and caught my eye, giving me a small, reassuring smile. I returned it, though mine felt forced.
Tyler always had a way of knowing when something was wrong, although this time, I had made it easy. It was a side effect of our lonely childhood. Having no one but each other had made an unbreakable bond.
“Delia,” my mother’s voice broke through my thoughts, zapping me out of self-pity. “How’s Jeremy been?”
The sound of his name made my stomach flip. I took a slow sip of water to buy myself a moment. “I don’t know,” I lied. “Why?”
“Well,” she continued, undeterred, “you’re still single, and the holidays are a good time to think about settling down.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from snapping. Tyler froze mid-slice, his eyes darting between me and Mom as if preparing for a showdown.
“I’m 24,” I said evenly, forcing a polite smile. “Not exactly out of time.”
Tyler served Mom a few slices of turkey before handing me one, saying, “Here, put this in your mouth.”
“It’s just a shame you two didn’t work out,” she said with a sigh, cutting into her turkey. “He was such a nice young man. Polite, hardworking, successful. The kind of guy who could really help you get your career started.”
“Mom,” Tyler interjected, his tone warning. “Maybe don’t.” I looked at him gratefully, and he smiled reassuringly as he laid thick slices of turkey on his own plate.
“What?” she asked, feigning innocence as she twirled her fork in the air. “I’m just saying, he was good for her. He had connections, and we all liked him, didn’t we?”
“I like the guy at the gas station I always see,” Tyler told her, with an infectious grin, “it doesn’t mean I think Delia should marry him.”
“But he’s still single, right?” my mom pressed.
Tyler groaned and dropped the knife onto the platter with a loud clatter, making our mom look at him sharply. “Can we not make Thanksgiving about Delia’s love life? Or lack thereof?”
“Thank you, Tyler,” I said, watching the turkey slices as they made their way to my plate.
“I’m just concerned,” Mom said defensively, crossing her arms. “You’re in grad school, sure, but you can’t ignore your personal life forever. And Jeremy was—”
“I said enough,” Tyler cut in, his voice firmer this time. “She doesn’t need to hear this right now.”
“Fine,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “But don’t come crying to me when she’s thirty-five and single because she wasted her best years.” She leaned back in her chair, bothered by what she perceived as a joint attack against her.
I felt a thick blanket of shame cover me that I couldn’t get through a dinner with her. She didn’t mean to hurt me— I didn’t think. Sometimes it felt that way, but I knew she had her own life embittered by loss. We’d lost our father in the wind, but she’d lost her husband and the father of her children. We’d all lost some of our identity to his running away.
The rest of dinner passed in tense silence, broken only by the clinking of silverware and the occasional forced comment about the food. My mother didn’t bring up Jeremy again, but I could feel her disapproval radiating across the table. It settled on my shoulders like a heavy cloak, weighing me down with every bite I forced down.
After dessert—apple pie that Tyler had picked up from the store on his way over—I excused myself to the kitchen, eager for a moment alone.
I leaned against the counter, staring blankly at the pile of dishes in the sink. The guilt I’d been carrying all day felt suffocating now, pressing down on me like a tidal wave.
I was pregnant, and my mother was sitting in the other room talking about how great my ex was. She had no idea about the life growing inside me, or about the man who had put it there. And she definitely wouldn’t approve if she knew.
To her, Robert would be everything Jeremy was – older, professional – but emotionally unavailable, complicated, with a daughter, and worst of all, a military veteran. A mistake. She would never in a million years approve of a man in the military for me, not after what happened with my dad.
And if she thought I was throwing my best years away now, once she knew about the pregnancy, she’d change her story completely. All of a sudden I’d be throwing away my career and education. She was impossible to please.
And maybe she was right. Maybe I had made a mistake. But as much as I wanted to regret what had happened with Robert, I couldn’t. Because along with the guilt, the fear, and the uncertainty, there was something else. Something warm and quiet and unshakable: hope.
I shook my head as I washed dishes, shaking free of the imaginary conversation I’d already had, and lost, in my mind.
“Hey,” Tyler’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, and I turned to see him leaning against the counter, his arms crossed. “You’ve been off all day,” he said, stepping closer. He lowered his voice, “Or really, since last night. Are you okay?”
I hesitated, the words caught in my throat. I wanted to tell him—wanted to unload the secret that was eating me alive. But I couldn’t. Not yet. “It’s just school,” I lied. “And work. It’s a lot.”
He studied me for a moment, his brow furrowed. He knew that there was more, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he reached out and gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before heading back to the living room where my mom was watching TV, a glass of wine tipping dangerously in her hand.
I watched him go, my chest aching with the weight of everything I wasn’t saying.
As I turned back to the sink, the sound of my mother’s laughter floated in from the other room, grating against my nerves.
So I did what I always did. I swallowed the guilt, plastered on a smile, and went back to the couch, pretending everything was fine. Even if it wasn’t.