9. Bernadette

It was on my drive home from the appointment—Lucas had dropped me back at the office so that I could grab my car—that I first got the feeling.

It was a feeling of tiredness, of exhaustion. There were so many things now that I was keeping a secret from my mother that it was absolutely overwhelming for me. I knew that there wasn't much longer that I was going to be able to keep this up, and this time it wasn't about my pregnancy showing.

No, it was about the fact that I hated lying to my mom.

Keeping secrets from her was not something that I did very well, and it wasn't something that I enjoyed, either. I preferred to have everything out in the open, and I often found that keeping things from her was damaging for my mental health.

On that drive, I didn't know when I was going to reveal to her what was going on, but I knew that it had to be soon. There was only so much longer that I could wait, only so much longer that I could wonder what her reaction was going to be.

I could only hope that she would be understanding and would see in my eyes that this was a time that I needed her more than ever, that I couldn't fight with her at that moment.

Of course, there was no way to know what she would say or do until I actually told her everything and saw for myself. My mom wasn't unpredictable, but this was also a situation that was out of the ordinary for both of us, and therefore unpredictable in its own right.

At home, I parked the car, took a deep breath, and then walked inside the house.

My mom was waiting for me at the kitchen table, a recipe for the evening spread out before her and a book in her lap. She looked up with a smile as I entered.

"How was your day at work?" she asked.

"It was fine," I said. "Nothing much happened." I winced. That was a blatant lie if I ever heard one. A lot had happened, what with me going to the prenatal appointment and all of that.

Her eyebrows came together in a line of confusion. "Are you sure? Are you all right? Did something happen?"

Of course, my mom would pick up on my little reaction, on the wavering tone in my voice, and immediately surmise that all was not as I said. And of course, she would question me about it. She was always one to pry, even if it seemed like the other person didn't want that.

I hesitated. I could lie again, tell her that everything was fine, it was just a long day, or I could take this opportunity to tell her the truth of what was really going on.

I decided to go with the latter option.

"Mom, there's something I need to tell you," I said, sitting down across from her.

Her expression became even more confused, but she didn't say anything, instead providing the space for me to speak and tell her what was going on.

"The truth is a lot has happened that I haven't told you about. Today wasn't just a workday. I also had my first prenatal appointment."

It took her a moment to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and then she flew up from her seat in a fury. I had never seen my mom look so angry in her life, though I suspected that she would just get angrier.

"Bernadette, you're pregnant?!" she screeched.

I nodded, unable to find the words to speak the truth myself.

"This…it's with that Lucas boy, isn't it? I told you, I told you time and time again that he was trouble. I told you to stay away from him, to keep your distance, and then this happens? Really, I thought you would know better."

"It isn't with him, Mom, it isn't his child," I said, which seemed to calm the fury a bit.

Then came the confusion.

"If it's not his child—" She said the words carefully, as if she was still trying to put together the puzzle for herself, trying to figure out the right words to say so that I would tell her the truth. "—then whose is it?"

"Mom, can you sit down first?" I asked, my voice shaking. I hoped that she could hear in it how scared I was, how much I needed her to take this well.

She took a deep breath and then sat as I asked her to. "All right, I'm sitting. Tell me whose child the baby is."

With quivering lips and the feeling that I was digging myself into a deeper and deeper hole, I told her the story of the night that I got pregnant. With each word, her expression changed. Sometimes it was one of sympathy, but mostly it was one of anger. I didn't know who she was angry at, I could only hope that it wasn't me.

When I finished, she took a moment to collect herself.

Then, in a tone quivering with more fury than I had thought possible, she said, "You knew better, Bernadette. I told you time and time again what kinds of friends you should surround yourself with, what kinds of events you should go to and the ones that you should not. How dare you toss my advice aside with so little care? If you had just listened to me, then this never would have happened."

I choked back a sob. Of all the answers, of all the things she could have said, this was the worst by far.

"Mom, please don't blame me."

"No, child. I can't look at this situation and not see it for what it is: a blatant disregard for everything that I said, which was all to protect you. I knew that something like this could happen, and so all those things that I said to you, all those warnings I gave you, were to prevent this."

She gestured at me with a look of disgust.

"You will think about what you've done, and you will get out." She stood, a look of fury and passion on her face. Fire burned in her eyes.

I had never seen my mom so angry with me, and it made me wonder if things were really my fault as she said. After all, if I had just listened to her then I wouldn't be in this situation now. About that much she was right.

But I had no time to wonder, for she was commanding me to get out, and for the first time in my life I was scared of her.

With tears in my eyes, I stood, pushing back my chair.

"You don't understand," I said again, a weak plea for her compassion. But she did not give it.

"Get. Out."

Turning from her to the front door, I grabbed my bag, and I ran, not even bothering to close the door behind me.

Let her lock it. Let her realize what she was doing as she turned the key, as she closed the door on her only child. I could only hope that she would come to her senses and come after me, but that was a fleeting wish that I soon realized was futile.

Whenever my mom had set her mind to something, she had always been stubborn, immovable. Probably not even a great tragedy would sway her otherwise.

While I had expected for her to have a reaction of this kind of proportion, even kicking me out, it did not mean that I had been prepared for that eventuality. I had hoped instead that she might be more reasonable and understanding of the fact that this was also a hard thing for me, and I was really going through it.

But she hadn't been, and I had to face that reality now. I had only my purse and what was in it, and I had been kicked out of my house for the foreseeable future.

It hurt. It hurt really badly. But, more than anything else, it was scary. What was I supposed to do now?