Don’t Let Your Mother Answer for You
I asked her about the Sunday Jessi came to the door.
And here she stopped, and she said, “That’s not — she turned up, Ivan, unannounced, on a Sunday, at my house—”
“Was she pregnant?”
Silence.
“Mom.
Was she standing on your porch pregnant with my son?”
And my mother said, “I don’t remember what she looked like.”
That is a lie and both of us knew it was a lie and it is the moment I stopped, in some final way, being her son in the way I had been for thirty-eight years.
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