I begged him. I actually cried and grabbed his sleeve in front of the lacrosse team. He peeled my fingers off one at a time and walked to his truck.
I never saw him or his family again.
So I went home and told my parents at the kitchen table, because I still believed that when everything falls apart, parents are the floor. My father didn’t even sit down.
“You’ve disgraced this family,” my mother said. “Get out of this house. Right now.”
I packed one small suitcase. I remember taking my winter coat and leaving my favorite yellow lamp, which is a ridiculous thing to still think about.
Twin boys came in the spring, four minutes apart, loud and perfect. A nurse named Doreen put them both in my arms and said, “Honey, you’re going to be fine.” I didn’t believe her. I cried anyway, from a place so happy it scared me.
