Chapter 20: Daddy’s Dirty Little Secret: Chapter 20

The kitchen felt quieter than usual as I worked to set the table. Dad stood by the counter, pulling out half-empty bottles of liquor, trying to look like he was contributing to the Easter brunch preparations. It wasn’t much. He couldn’t help with much these days.

“I’ll pay you back for all this,” Dad mumbled again, breaking the silence as he wiped a glass clean. I didn’t look at him when I responded, focusing on arranging the plates and silverware. The soft clink of the dishes seemed louder than it should have been.

“It’s fine, Dad,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. I had paid his light bill last week, bought all the food for today. I wasn’t expecting anything in return. But it was hard not to feel bitter. He said he’d pay me back every time, and every time, he didn’t. It wasn’t just about the money—it was about him not being the man I used to know. The man who’d take care of things.

“You don’t have to do all this, you know,” Dad added, his voice lower this time. He set the glass down and rubbed his face. “I’ll get back on my feet soon. I’ll figure it out.”

I stayed silent, not trusting myself to say anything. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t believe him, that I knew how much trouble he was in. But I didn’t. It wouldn’t help. It would just make him retreat further into himself.

I set the napkins down carefully, trying to keep my movements steady. “Dad,” I said, voice quieter, “Are you sure you’re okay? After what happened with the car … with those men watching you?”

He stiffened but quickly masked it with a casual shrug. “I’m fine, Amelia. Nothing to worry about.”

I didn’t believe him, but I couldn’t force him to admit the truth. He was trying to protect me, I knew that much. But it wasn’t working. I couldn’t just pretend everything was fine. Not after what Godwin had said about Victor Hayes.

The doorbell rang, cutting through the tension. I looked at him, but he had already gone to answer it. I heard Aunt Julia’s voice as she greeted Dad, then Aunt Claire’s softer one following. The usual chatter began to fill the house lightening the mood, and I hoped it would shift the way I felt about the entire situation.

My aunts swooped in like they always did—coats barely off, voices already high and warm, arms flung around me before I could dodge them. Lipstick kisses on my cheek, powdered cheeks against mine.

“Look at this table,” Aunt Julia breathed, touching a napkin fold like it was a piece of art. “Amelia, you outdo yourself every year.”

Aunt Claire stepped in behind Julia, her arms full of a covered dish and that worn canvas tote she brought to every family gathering. She smiled at me like I was still ten years old and winning spelling bees. “Oh, sweetheart, this is just lovely,” she said, setting the dish down. “You have such a gift—really. Your mother would’ve been so proud.” They shed coats and settled in, voices overlapping as chairs scraped and plates clinked.

Dad lingered near the counter, fingers tapping against the side of his glass. He watched us for a moment, then cleared his throat and crossed the room. He pulled out a chair slowly, like he was unsure if he was allowed to sit, and eased into it with a tight smile, eyes down.

My aunts filled their plates like they hadn’t eaten in days. Aunt Julia hummed as she scooped up eggs and sweet potatoes, the way she always did when food met her approval. “This ham,” she said, fanning herself dramatically, “Amelia, it’s divine. You really do too much.”

My aunt Claire gave my hand a quick squeeze before reaching for the rolls. “Your mother would be proud,” she said softly, not looking at me when she said it, which somehow made it worse.

They passed dishes back and forth, praising the balance of seasoning, the way the carrots still had bite, how the green beans “weren’t mushy like some people make them.” My hands stayed busy—straightening a fork, refilling water, pretending I wasn’t unraveling inch by inch.

Dad sat hunched at the far end of the table, nodding along, swirling what was left of his drink. He hadn’t touched his plate. His smile flickered on and off, like he was trying it out and still hadn’t decided if it fit.

My aunt Claire passed Dad the breadbasket and asked in a soft tone, “You holding up alright these days?”

Dad nodded, slow. “Yeah. One day at a time.”

Julia reached for her glass. “It’s still so strange without her, Laurence. Easter was always her favorite, wasn’t it?”

Dad smiled, faint and far away. “She’d be chasing everyone out of the kitchen by now.” I winced at the mention of my mother. They didn’t have to say her name and it still hurt.

They laughed briefly. I kept my eyes on my plate. The steam rising from the ham made my stomach turn. I shifted in my chair, trying to breathe steady. When Dad said, “She’d be proud of you,” I nearly gagged.

My mom would be appalled by my father’s behavior lately, and the idea that he wanted to speak for her frustrated me. I gripped the edges of the wooden chair I sat in and scowled at my plate as nausea made my stomach roll. It’d been this way for days, and I’d been blaming it on that breakfast sausage last week, then my nerves, then the disagreement I’d had with Xander.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Aunt Julia asked as she slathered butter on her breakfast roll. “You look green.”

I forced a tight smile and reached for my water. The glass felt too cold in my hand, slick with condensation.

She pointed at the sausages piled on the platter in front of her. “I used to love these,” she said, laughing softly. “When I was pregnant with Max, I couldn’t even look at one without gagging. Morning sickness hit so hard, I had to open all the windows just to make it through breakfast.”

The room felt smaller suddenly. My stomach flipped, then tightened like it was holding something in.

She went on, still amused. “And that was it. Never again. Haven’t had one since.”

I stared down at my plate, watching the edge of my egg yolk slide toward my toast. My chest felt hot. My breath caught halfway in.

Claire added without missing a beat, “Jenna’s going through the same thing. Barely eight weeks and sick as a dog. Poor girl can’t even keep crackers down.”

The sound of my pulse rose in my ears.

I hadn’t had a fever, but I hadn’t been sleeping well. That was normal for someone who was so stressed about things. With everything happening with Dad, I couldn’t rest if I tried.

Still, Xander and I never used protection, but I was on the pill, so it didn’t feel like a risk. I hadn’t had a period in months though, which was expected, and the idea of being pregnant didn’t make sense to me. It didn’t line up. But as they kept talking about morning sickness, the thought started to settle in my mind. I tried to push it away. I kept telling myself there was no reason to worry, but the more I tried, the harder it was to believe.

“Sometimes you don’t even feel sick until week eight,” Claire said, and my mind started tallying the weeks now. It was the second week of April; Xander and I had sex on New Year’s Eve. Again, two weeks later when I was just getting over bronchitis, and then a week later we started our arrangement. That was almost ten weeks ago now. My God …

The roll on my plate looked pale and dense and wrong. My fingers curled under the edge of the chair, gripping hard. I couldn’t tell if it was the smell of the sausage or the weight of their voices, but I knew I needed to leave the room.

I pushed back my chair, careful not to knock anything over. “Excuse me,” I said, barely hearing my own voice. No one looked up right away. They were still laughing about something Claire had said, still passing dishes like nothing had shifted. No one stopped me.

The hallway felt longer than usual, the light dimmer. I kept my steps quiet, steady, even as the pressure in my stomach built with every breath. The bathroom door stuck in the frame, and I had to shove it open with more force than I meant to.

I dropped to my knees and leaned over the toilet just as the nausea tipped past its breaking point. The retching was sharp and sudden, leaving my eyes stinging and my throat raw. I stayed there with my palms pressed against the cold tile, waiting to see if more would come up, but it didn’t. I wiped my mouth with a tissue and unsteady hands, then sat back against the wall. I tried to slow my breathing, but the thought had already taken hold.

This wasn’t just stress or bad food. I couldn’t explain it away as easily as I had the last few days. I didn’t want to believe it could be possible, but now I couldn’t think about anything else. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, not sure if I was trying to hold something in or keep something out. Fear threatened to keep me planted on the bathroom floor, but the last thing I wanted was for them to come looking and find me a nervous wreck, so I pushed myself up and returned to the dining room.

I fought through the rest of brunch with a smile that didn’t fit. The food on my plate stayed mostly untouched, but I moved it around to make it look like I was eating. My aunts didn’t notice. They were too busy talking about Claire’s oldest grandchild and the price of honey hams. Dad barely looked at me. He kept fiddling with his silverware, stacking and unstacking the knife and fork between sips of whatever he’d poured himself.

When the last plate was cleared and the laughter started to quiet, I stood and grabbed my coat. I told Dad I wasn’t feeling great and needed to get home. He offered me a distracted nod and told me to drive safe.

I didn’t go home, not right away. I drove straight to the pharmacy, hands gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles hurt. I parked and sat there for a few minutes before I could force myself inside. The test was on the second shelf, next to the allergy meds. I didn’t read the box, didn’t compare brands. I just grabbed it and paid.

The apartment felt too empty when I stepped through the front door. It felt wrong to do this alone when most happy couples were together and celebratory during something like this. I hated that feeling. I didn’t even take off my shoes; I went straight to the bathroom, ripped open the box with trembling fingers, and followed the directions without letting myself think.

I didn’t pace while I waited. I sat on the edge of the tub and stared at the floor, at the grout between the tiles. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. I set a timer on my phone and when it went off, I reached for the test with a hand I barely recognized as mine.

Two lines.

I blinked, hoping I had read it wrong. I read it again. And again.

I pressed my hand to my mouth and started shaking. I didn’t mean to cry at first, but the sound came out anyway. Then everything spilled over. I sank to the floor and curled in on myself, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe.

This couldn’t be happening. I had done everything right. Or enough of the right things. I told myself it wasn’t possible. I had believed it. And now everything felt out of control.

Xander had made it clear from the beginning. No strings. No plans. No future. I hadn’t expected anything from him, but I never imagined this. I thought at some point I’d fall in love, and he’d figure it out and end things, and I’d be heartbroken, quit my job, and be out of work and desperate. Not this. Not a baby.

My phone lit up, buzzing softly on the counter and I almost ignored it. However, I saw Godwin’s caller ID and knew he would help me. I didn’t want to pick up and expose my shame, but my hand moved before I could stop it. My heart knew what I needed.

“Hey, happy Easter,” he said. “Just checking in⁠—”

“I’m pregnant.” The words came out strangled. “I’m pregnant, and I don’t know what to do.”

There was a pause on the other end, just long enough to make me think I shouldn’t have said anything. The way I word vomited on him probably shocked him.

Then his voice came back with a firm tone and the strength I needed in that moment. “Hold on. I’m coming. We’ll figure it out. I’ve got you.”

The line went dead. I clutched the phone to my chest and curled back into the corner, tears running hot down my cheeks.

I didn’t know how this could get worse.