66. Petra
PETRA
I didn’t expect to be back home so soon, but after evading Sin one too many times, I realized I needed an excuse to get out of the situation. Not just because it would be so easy to give in, but because the more I think about it, the more suspicions I have—about him, about everything.
I wonder if he noticed something was off with me. Maybe he did. I don’t really have a good poker face. Never have, never will. I’m already dreading our next meeting—when he asks me what’s wrong, and I’ll have to lie.
I release a deep breath and strip off my clothes to hop in the shower. I scrub myself clean, apply some perfume and lotion, and afterward, I realize I’m getting a bit too hungry. Maybe I should’ve eaten what Sin brought, but that would’ve given him more time to grill me.
Curious, I check the fridge. Knowing my parents and their sporadic visits, and considering how absent I’ve also been, I doubt there’s much inside.
Sure enough, most of the food is expired.
Damn it.
I guess my only option is to order something. But just as I grab my phone to browse delivery options, the front door clicks open, and my parents strut in, luggage in hand. My mother walks in first, followed by my father—both dressed to the nines despite having just gotten off a flight.
“Petra,” my mother intones. “It’s so good to see you.”
I give her a forced smile. That’s not something a parent should say to their child—especially not when they technically live with said child.
“You’ve been gone a while,” I remark dryly.
“Just a couple of weeks, but we have great news! The contract went perfectly. We signed it, and we’re moving on to the next stage.
Your father was even asking what kind of gift you’d like from the bonus we received.
I thought maybe we could check out that new Saint Laurent collection. What do you think?”
I stare at her. “Um, I’m good,” I mumble.
They move deeper into the house, leaving their luggage in the hallway. I need to get past them before they get a good look at me. Normally, when they’re home, I wear baggy clothes to hide my ever-growing bump. But today, I’m in a tight top and pajama pants.
I cross my arms over my stomach and fidget with my phone, pretending to be busy. As I head for the stairs—almost there, almost free—my mother’s high-pitched voice rings out again.
“Petra!” she exclaims, but this time there’s no joy in her tone.
“Yes?” I ask, half-turning.
“You’ve gained weight! She has, hasn’t she, dear?” she says, turning to my father.
“Yes,” he replies. “You were skinnier before.”
I gulp. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.
“Gee, thanks for telling me I’m fat,” I mutter.
“You’re not fat, dear, but you’re so petite. Too much weight doesn’t look good on you,” she says sweetly.
“Well, it happened,” I shrug.
“But when did it happen? Did you change your diet? Should we hire a new chef? What have you been eating? This is so sudden. I don’t remember you being so large.”
I glare at her. Because, of course, that’s what every teenage girl wants to hear—how large she is.
“Can you please not comment on my weight?” I ask flatly.
“We’re not commenting, we’re just . . . worried. This isn’t like you. You’ve always been so small and—”
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.
Maybe it’s not the best way to break the news, but her fake concern over my weight pisses me off.
If she’s going to act mad, I want her really mad. And this will do the trick.
She blinks, stunned. My father’s jaw slackens.
Her lips tremble as she tries to find the right words. “But to be pregnant, you have to have sex,” she trails off. “And you’re too young to have sex.”
“That’s exactly what got me into this situation.”
“But . . . but . . . you’re only eighteen. That’s so young!” she sputters.
“It might be, but I’m technically an adult,” I say, keeping my tone steady.
My mom gasps loudly as if she’s just now understanding the implications. My father swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“No. This is impossible. This is a prank, isn’t it? You’re playing a prank on us.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” I ask, deadpan.
“You do have a weird sense of humor,” she says, forcing a fake laugh. “Ha . . . ha . . .”
“I’m not joking.”
“No . . .” Her face falls.
“Yes,” I confirm. “And your outrage is a bit late.”
I pocket my phone and place my hands on my stomach.
“I’m already five months pregnant. The fact that you’re just now noticing should concern you more than the fact that I’m pregnant.”
“But Petra—”
“No. Maybe this isn’t what you wanted for me. But if you’d been around more, you would’ve seen the changes in my body long ago.”
My mother stares at me, eyes wet, lips trembling. Then she asks in a semi-wailing voice, “Is this an act of rebellion? Are you trying to punish me—punish us?”
I glare at her. Of all the things she could’ve said, she makes it about them.
“Sure, Mom. I got pregnant just to get your attention. I might be desperate, but not that desperate.”
Tears stream down her cheeks. “But how could this happen? You’ve never seemed interested in anyone. You’ve never even had a boyfriend!”
I roll my eyes. “As if you were ever around enough to know whether I had one or not. Have you ever asked me?”
“There, there,” my father says, trying to placate us. “Let’s not get carried away. Petra, if you’re joking, please tell us. This isn’t funny.”
“I told you. I’m not joking. And not that it’s any of your business, since I am eighteen, but yes, I have a boyfriend who loves me very much—and he’s excited about the pregnancy.”
My mother continues to cry. “But you’re so young!”
All the while, my father holds her like she just learned the world is ending.
“You weren’t much older than me when you had me,” I retort.
She wails louder. “Exactly! I didn’t want this for you. I didn’t want you to end up like me! That’s why I told you to wait. To find someone you love.”
“And I did,” I fire back. “I found someone who loves me, and I love him. Yes, I’m pregnant.
But don’t worry, I won’t end up like you.
I actually plan to be in my child’s life.
” I’ve thought about this. A lot. And no matter what’s going on, whether this baby is .
. . supernatural, or whatever, I’ll love him.
Because he’s mine. I’ll love him the way I was never loved. I’ll give him the attention I never got.
She gasps audibly, her eyes widening in shock. My father continues to try to calm her down. They’re so wrapped up in each other, not even looking at me. And all my old grievances come rushing back.
In a moment that should be about me, about the fact that I may actually want this baby—though, it’s the first time I’ve admitted that—they’re still talking about their feelings. Their expectations. Their plans.
Pain shoots through my chest.
My eyes sting. I blink quickly, unwilling to cry in front of them. I turn and head up the stairs.
I didn’t expect them to be supportive. But I didn’t expect this.
Disappointment crushes me.
And I don’t know if I’m more disappointed in them for being who they always were or in myself for expecting anything different.
I swallow down the lump in my throat and wipe the tears from my eyes. I try to stay strong, try not to fall apart—but it’s cruel, so cruel, that when I need them the most . . . they’re still not there.
All I’ve ever wanted was for them to acknowledge me. Not as a burden, not as an obligation. But as a person.
My mother knocks at my door and opens it slightly.
She gazes at me for a few moments in silence, her expression tight and uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs at last. And to my shock, she does seem rather apologetic. “May I come in?” she asks.
I give her a small nod and scoot over on the bed, making space for her.
She closes the door and takes a seat next to me. She stares straight ahead, almost as if she doesn’t dare look me in the eye.
“I realize now that perhaps I shouldn’t have reacted like that,” she starts. “You know, we had you when we were very young, and we were poor. We could barely afford the roof over our heads. It was only after you were born that our fortunes changed, and we were able to provide for you.
“Maybe because both your dad and I grew up with nothing, we became too focused on providing. And somewhere along the way, we forgot to actually be there for you. I’m sorry. I realize now that our approach wasn’t the best.”
She takes a deep breath.
“You never talked about being poor before,” I mention with a frown.
“We didn’t come from money. Even though we started this company early on, it wasn’t a success until after we had you.
The company was dying. We were in deep debt—until an investor stepped in and helped us turn things around.
He was a godsend, the only one who believed in our vision.
If it hadn’t been for him, we never would’ve gotten where we are today.
“I guess I never talked about it because it was such a hard time in our lives. I didn’t want you to think about money the way I did growing up: as something that’s always slipping through your fingers. I wanted you to always have what you needed. The best things.”
My mind is going in circles trying to make sense of everything she’s saying—some of it that I’m hearing for the first time. Yet it’s one piece of information that gives me pause.
“An investor?” I repeat slowly. Another piece of information I’ve never heard about before. “Who was this investor?”
“Oh, dear,” my mom says, thinking. “He was an alum of St. Anselm Hall, actually. He not only invested in the company but also introduced us to people in the field who helped us expand. He was the one who recommended we move to Radcliffe, so you could attend his old school.
“You know how competitive St. Anselm is. They mostly take legacies. He was the one who vouched for you and sent a letter of recommendation.”
I stare at her.
“That’s news to me,” I say suspiciously. “You never mentioned that before.”