If Only I Had Told Her(84)

The same elderly woman is sitting behind the counter when we arrive.

“Back again, dears?” she says without a pause in her knitting, proving my suspicions that she is a witch.

Mom, the expert shopper in all situations, leads the way to the furniture corner where the little crib sits. “It doesn’t quite match the rest of the wood in your room,” she muses. “It would almost be better if it was totally different. This will look like we tried to match it and failed. I’m certain I could find one online in a better color.”

“This is perfect,” I say. “Last I heard, none of the interior design magazines were doing spreads on teen mom’s nurseries, so I don’t think we’re missing any opportunities.” I rest my hands on the adjustable bar possessively.

“All right then, sweetie. If it were me, I’d find the coordination soothing when in the trenches.”

“In the trenches? Why do people always talk about motherhood like it’s going to war?”

Mom and Aunt Angelina look at each other and shrug.

“What are we thinking then?” the saleswoman asks, approaching us.

Mom begins to set up the purchase and delivery. I stare down at the crib and try to convince myself that someday there will be not only a mattress inside it but an infant.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Aunt Angelina asks.

“That we should let Mom order a bespoke crib mattress made of organic llama hair or something?”

“Exactly. She’s respected your wishes not to turn your dad’s office into a Victorian nursery full of chintz and should be rewarded.”

I turn from the crib to face her. “Since it’s Dad’s money, I’ll have to let her do something to his office eventually.”

Angelina stiffens. “What did you say?”

“Since it’s Dad’s money—”

“It’s not your father’s money, Autumn. Is that what your mother told you?”

“No, I just assumed,” I say.

Angelina looks stricken. This must have something to do with Finny that I don’t understand. She looks past me to where I can hear the saleslady and my mother talking behind me. Her mouth tightens.

“Your mother didn’t tell you about the arrangement with Finny’s father?”

Everything tilts in my mind.

“The what? With him?” I ask.

“Autumn,” she whispers, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to kill your mother.”

“Mom?” I shout as I twist around. She and the saleslady simultaneously turn from each other to me. “What is this arrangement that Aunt Angelina is talking about? With Finny’s…Finn—”

I can’t bring myself to call that man a father to Finny.

“Let me finish arranging the delivery, and we’ll talk about it later,” Mom sings out to me, using a customer service voice.

I’m not buying what she’s selling.

“What’s this arrangement?” I ask Angelina. She’s tried so hard to give me support along with respectful space. Through all these months, I’ve remained in awe of her composure, but she looks like she’s about to lose it.

She trusted her best friend to tell the mother of their grandchild this delicate bit of information, this involvement of the man who abandoned her child.

“I don’t know the details, but apparently, in exchange for whatever access you are willing to give him, updates or pictures, Finn’s father gave access to Finny’s trust fund.” Her voice has started to rise, and she catches herself and swallows, then takes a breath.

I’m still trying to understand why she said the words “trust fund” and “Finny” so close together, so we both clearly need a moment.

“Well, that’s done!” my mother exclaims from behind me.

I don’t turn to look at her. I can’t stop staring at the hurt on Aunt Angelina’s face.

“Is it, Mom?” I say.



We agreed to wait until we were at home to talk.

“Yes, I want to be able to see your face when we talk about this,” I told my mother when she suggested waiting until after the drive home. The drive was quiet and as frosty as the late autumn chill outside.

At home, seated around the kitchen table, finally looking at her face, I say, “We already know that you thought what you were doing was best for everyone.”

“And that’s not an excuse,” my mother agrees. “I should have told you.”

“So why didn’t you?” Angelina presses. “We agreed this was Autumn’s decision.”

“How does he even know that I’m pregnant?”

“That part’s my fault, kiddo,” Aunt Angelina admits. “He reached out to me right after you went to the hospital. He has this project about Finny he wanted help with, and it had all been such a whirlwind of emotions from losing Finny to thinking we might lose you to finding out about the pregnancy, and I don’t know. I told him.”

“And he made Mom an offer too good to refuse?” I ask them both. I feel like a piece of me has been sold.

“I meant to tell you,” Mom says. “But then I didn’t, and it seemed easier to wait until…”

“What? Until that man demanded access to my child that he’d already paid for?”