Every man disappointed Donna. Everyone else simply had it easier.
I work two jobs.
Donna had also once looked at my pregnant stomach and sighed, “If I had your life, I’d have three kids by now.”
Apparently children were a loyalty program. Collect three and receive a free husband.
Our parents always excused her. “That’s just Donna.”
“She’s had a hard life.”
“She’s tired.”
Apparently children were a loyalty program.
So I swallowed it.
But attacking Mia was different.
Donna stormed outside, and I started after her.
Mia caught my sleeve. “Mom, don’t.”
I crouched beside her. “Honey, what did you mean?”
Attacking Mia was different.
“About what?”
“You said you know more than Donna thinks.”
Mia suddenly became fascinated by the microphone cord.
“Mia?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
That was strange.
You said you know more than Donna thinks.
My daughter told me everything, including things no mother needs to know, like which boy in fifth grade could burp the alphabet.
“Mia, did Aunt Donna say something to you?”
“No.”
“Did somebody else?”
My daughter told me everything.
She looked away. “I promised.”
“Promised who?”
“I can’t tell you.”
That scared me.
Mia told me everything — even which fifth grader could burp the alphabet.
I promised.
***
