The Road to Rose Bend, Naima Simone [jenna bush book club .TXT] 📗

my buyer order these for you. I hope you like them.”

“I love them,” Sydney said.

Her mother chuckled. “You haven’t even seen all of them.”

“Doesn’t matter.” They came from you. Sydney didn’t utter those words, but they echoed in her head, her heart.

“Well, I’m glad.” Clearing her throat, her mother glanced down at the printout she still held. “Oh, Sydney. A little girl. Does your father know?”

Sydney nodded. “He was there for it.”

“That’s wonderful. Have you...” Her mother hesitated, paused. “Have you spoken with Daniel? Does he know?”

“Yes and yes. But unfortunately, he’s a bit angry with me right now,” Sydney confessed. Ordinarily, Sydney wouldn’t have shared this with her mother—it’d been a long time since she’d felt emotionally safe enough to do that. She told her how she’d neglected to record the appointment and his reaction.

“Oh, Sydney,” her mother tsked softly. “You do understand why he’s upset, don’t you? With you moving and him living so far away, he’s missing out on these important moments and feels like he’s not even a father because he’s not an active part of this pregnancy.”

“I know all this, Mom,” Sydney said, impatience creeping into her voice. She did know. And the guilt hadn’t abated at all. It was that shame that lent her tone an edge. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I made a mistake, and I’ve already promised that I’ll do better in the future. It’s all I can do given the circumstances. Especially since those circumstances aren’t likely to change any time soon.”

“Are you—” Patricia faltered, and she glanced away from her.

“Just say it, Mom,” Sydney said, but then held up a hand, palm out. “No, wait. Let me finish it for you. Am I sure that I’m doing the right thing?”

“Sydney, you know I love you. But I’m so worried about you. The divorce. Suddenly showing up here with no plan. Taking a baby away from her father and raising her alone? How can I not question if you haven’t thought all of this out? If you’re not acting impulsively without weighing the consequences of your actions.”

“Why do you just assume that I haven’t weighed them? Assume that I don’t have a plan? Maybe I haven’t shared my plans with you. Has it occurred to you that I’m afraid to share them with you?”

Heat scalded her face, prickled over her skin, under her arms. Fear—of hurting her mother, of being hurt by her mother—pumped through her, mingling with the resentment and anger that had become an emotional staple when dealing with her parents.

Not good enough. Not the right daughter. Not anything more than a spare parts factory.

The vitriolic mantra hissed inside her head like a venomous snake. A mantra that had firmly entrenched itself deep in the bone marrow she’d once donated to her sister.

“Afraid?” Her mother frowned. “Why would you ever be afraid of me?”

“Seriously?” Sydney asked, incredulous. “Because I know whatever I told you wouldn’t be supported but criticized, torn apart and denigrated.”

“So, you want me to support you being a single mother?” Patricia demanded. “Support the added stress and pressure along with the financial burden you’ll face?”

“Yes,” Sydney nearly shouted. Turning away, she clenched her jaw, trying to leash her temper. “If it’s my choice,” she said, softer but no less vehemently, “then yes. If the alternative is being trapped in a loveless, too-polite, barren marriage where I’m slowly suffocating and losing myself, then yes. You might not agree with it, but I expect you to support me.”

“I...” Her mother glanced down at the printout in her hand before lifting her gaze to Sydney’s. And the disappointment there slashed a cut so deep, Sydney wondered how her mother didn’t see the wound. “Everything you said starts with I. But it’s not just about you anymore. It’s about Daniel and this precious baby.” Her mother slightly shook the scroll of images. “It became that when you got married. Even more so when you irresponsibly had sex with a man you shouldn’t have divorced in the first place.”

Selfish. The word echoed in her head, ricocheted off her skull and buried deep into her soul. It raked her, leaving her exposed, pulsing, a living, breathing bruise.

To her parents she would never be anything but that girl who cared only about herself, her needs, her wants.

In an instant, she was transported back to that night eighteen years ago in Baptist Memorial’s pediatric ICU when Sydney had screamed and curled into a ball, hysterical at the prospect of enduring another surgery and painful recovery—this time for a partial kidney donation. She’d stolen that from beautiful, sweet Carlin.

And she’d sealed her fate as the selfish, doomed-to-disappoint failure of a daughter. Her parents had never uttered the words, but Sydney knew they’d never forgiven her for that one, irreversible act.

Which was fair, she supposed. Because she hadn’t completely forgiven herself.

And here they stood. Constantly hurting one another. Disappointing one another.

“Sydney,” her mother continued, her voice gentling. “It’s not too late to fix things. I’ve talked to Daniel. He wants—”

A needle scratched across a record, loud and discordant, in her head. She stumbled back a step, staring at her mother, disbelief and anger filtering through the shock. “You did what?” she asked.

“He was my son-in-law for five years,” she snapped, then heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s hurting, too. So, of course I called to check on him.”

Sydney chuckled, and it scraped her throat raw. “You called to check on him. And your daughter, who lives in the same town, you didn’t reach out to once. News flash, Mom. I’m hurting. I’m scared. I’m alone. I needed—need—you, but it’s Daniel who receives your concern...your love.”

“Sydney.” Her mother lifted an arm. “I—”

“I shouldn’t have come here,” Sydney whispered. “This was a mistake.” As was stepping out on that bitch Faith.

Pivoting, she strode toward the exit, and for every step she took, it seemed like the smothering air forced her back three. With a sob, she finally, finally reached the door.