Chapter Ten
Sin
Slippery
“When did you become such a dark horse?” My mother’s question is like a clap of thunder that comes right before rain clouds move in and block out the sun.
I didn’t see it coming. I’d been nursing a pot of lamb stew and listening to one of the three audiobooks I had on rotation.
“A dark horse?” I keep my voice conversational and my eyes on the pot of simmering stew I’m stirring and savor the last few moments of the peace I brokered with white lies.
“Don’t play coy with me.” The reproach is accompanied by a smack on the back of my arm.
I scowl at her. In my head, of course.
I may keep secrets from my mother like it’s my job but being disrespectful to her face?
That’s rebelling a little too close to the sun for even me.
“I’m not playing coy. I don’t know what you mean.
I’m just making my mom’s favorite stew.” I keep my gaze trained on the stove while my mind spins with the half dozen things I’ve kept from her and which one she’s likely to have guessed.
“Your sister told us everything. We are very disappointed. To say the least.”
I close my eyes briefly and swallow my groan of irritation. I should have known. “I’m sorry, Mom.” I apologize despite not knowing which one of my sins I’m taking responsibility for.
“We need you to join us in your father’s study.
Now.” She adds that last part with a wide-eyed look of challenge before she leaves the kitchen without another word.
I’m almost forty years old, financially independent, with full agency over my life and I don’t want to have this conversation with my parents or anyone.
But none of that overrides the fact that I am their daughter and that in this house, their word is law.
I turn the fire off because if I burn this stew, it will add insult to injury.
I pushed a lot of their boundaries in my young adult years but always colored inside the lines. They wanted me to study medicine. I chose to double major in English and History, but I did it at Princeton so they still had plenty to brag about in the letters they sent to family back home.
When I decided to forgo grad school altogether and took a job as a staff writer, I chose the most prestigious newspaper to work for. One that conferred credibility and meant success.
They’d been skeptical about my recent career move and what my return to DC would mean for the rest of my life in New York, and I wasn’t ready to have that conversation with them.
I’ve only been at The Spectator for three months and was hoping I’d have more time to figure out how I felt about my new life before I told them everything.
My sister is sitting at the foot of the stairs when I walk past them on my way to the study where my judge and jury are waiting.
She reaches for my hand and draws me to a stop.
I yank my hand away and glare at her. “You’re on my shit list, Mae,” I whisper, furiously.
“I’m sorry, Sin. I didn’t mean to tell her. It just slipped out. I don’t know why you told me anyway. You know I can’t keep a secret. Don’t be mad at me, please?” She pleads with those puppy-dog eyes that get her out of everything and I sigh. “Just tell me what they know,” I say in a low voice.
Not that it matters. Whether she told them one of my secrets or all, my parents are going to have a lot to say.
She blinks up at me, her eyes sorrowful as if she’s the one in trouble. “It was just what you told me that night I found you crying in the bathroom,” she whispers.
“I told you a lot of things that night. Be specific,” I snap.
Her brows furrow and her eyes move away. “Let’s see, you told me you and Stephen broke up.” She flinches at my glare.
“I’m sorry, Sin.” She grabs my hand again and squeezes it when I try to pull away.
“She was grilling me about something two minutes after I woke up. I was confused, and it slipped out. I didn’t tell her you said you’re never getting back together because you’d rather be alone than settle for less.
Also, you’re not sorry that you’re a cheater because that man made you come six times, and Stephen never could,” she says, her eyes growing wider with each word as if she was shocked to hear herself speaking them.
I close my eyes. “I told you all of that?” I swear off alcohol in that very moment. It makes me do stupid things.
“Yeah. I don’t judge you or—”
“Arsinoé Sackey, we are waiting,” my mother’s voice booms down the hall.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, pleading eyes wide.
I roll my eyes.
“Come on, you know what she’s like when she puts on her inquisitor’s hat,” she adds.
I pat her shoulder and smother my irritation. “It’s not your fault.” We called my sister okra-mouth growing up because when it came to secrets, her lips are as slippery as the infamously slimy vegetable.
This is a family where secrets go to die and I knew that once I was back home, it was only a matter of time before they’d know everything.
I knock on the door out of courtesy before I push it open and step into the cozy room.
I can’t help but check the shelves for books that weren’t there a week ago.
I love this room. It’s where I felt happiest when I was growing up in this house.
My father is as voracious a reader as I am and his study was my personal library.
I had what my mother called an “unnatural” curiosity and asked questions until I had an answer that made sense.
My father was the only person who didn’t seem annoyed by it. He bought books he thought would feed my thirst for stories and answers. This room was where we spent hours talking about any and everything.
It is also where they bring me when I’ve earned a talking to.
Growing up, I gave them plenty of occasion for that. But since I turned eighteen and came close enough to disaster to taste it, I’ve been the model oldest daughter. I’ve given them reasons to be proud and my siblings inspiration. Until now.
“So, you and Stephen have broken up,” my mother says as soon as I sit down.
“Yes.” I nod and cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap and keep my face somber and my eyes contrite. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know how to.”
“He told us he was ring shopping. He asked your father for permission to ask you to marry him. What happened?” my mother asks.
I look at her. “What do you mean? When did he do that?”
“Just last week. He said he was going to surprise you.”
Disgusted and shocked, I suppress the urge to curse. “I wish he had talked to me before he told you that. It would have saved us all a lot of heartache. It’s over, and he knows it.” I’d rehearsed this answer and I cringe at how lacking in warmth my delivery is.
“But why didn’t you tell us things were over? Estelle didn’t know either.”
I flinch at the mention of my ex’s mother. “You told her?”
“Of course I did,” she says indignant and reproachful at once. “Just because you can keep things from people who have a right to know doesn’t mean we all have to do the same.”
“I’m sorry. I was going to tell you. Just not yet. I mean…until I was sure it was really over.”
“Oh, thank God,” my mother clutches her lapels and blows a kiss skyward. “So it’s not over.”
I raise a hand waving in disagreement. “No, no it is. We weren’t made to last. He’s a great—”
My mother groans loudly and I dart a glance to my father. He shrugs and frowns as if he’s helpless to do anything to stop the dramatics she’s about to perform.
“Mama. I am sorry. I didn’t tell you because I knew you would be upset. He’s not great. And he’s not faithful.”
“Okay. And?”
“What do you mean, and?” I look at my father. Accusation turns my voice sharp. “What does she mean?” I demand.
He holds his hands up. “Don’t look at me. I love my wife and my peace of mind too much to be stupid.”
My mother pets his knee and they share a smile before she turns back to me. “It happens. And at your age, you should be glad that he didn’t leave you for her. Try to forgive him.”
I look at my mother askance. “I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but he wasn’t a prize. That man doesn’t know how to cook, or clean.”
“Why should he? When you do? You sound like an American.”
“I am American,” I remind her.
“Only by passport. We raised you with the values from home.”
I sigh. “Mom, I need you to get comfortable with the idea of me not getting married.”
“Okay, well if you don’t want to marry anyone, then I have plenty of young men who need someone to marry for papers. At least you can help someone even as you break your mother’s heart.”
“Mom, I am not going to marry someone just for papers. First, it’s illegal, and second, it’s illegal.”
“Hmm, you never know…you could meet your forever man.”
I recoil in disgust. “Do you hear yourself?”
“Do you?” she retorts.
“I don’t need a husband. Why would I sacrifice my autonomy just so I can satisfy an outdated norm that was only ever there to benefit men?”
She looks at my father in exasperation. “Our American daughter says marriage is outdated.”
He throws his hands up toward the sky. “Where did I go wrong?”
I sigh in long suffering weariness. “If you wanted a Ghanaian daughter, you should have raised me there.”
My parents have lived in this country for almost forty years, but their hearts, minds, and social circles remained on the other side of the world.
At home we watched CNN International, listened to high life, ate rice and stew every day, and every summer we had a house packed with visiting relatives who stayed for months at a time.
And we almost always had a cousin living with us while they went to school.
My parents both went to boarding school, prized education above everything, and didn’t allow us to do anything they deemed “too American.” So dating, straightening our hair, calling any adult by their first name, and spending the night anywhere but under their roof were all forbidden.