I sink onto a barstool at her kitchen peninsula, moving aside a stack of school papers, mail, and a hair barrette. She puts two slices of bread in the toaster and looks at me with deep concern. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Zack.”
“Zack?” She widens her eyes and puts her hand to her chest, as if I’d said something was wrong with Santa Claus. “It’s not another woman, is it?”
“No, nothing like that. But I just found out he has a child.”
“What?”
I draw a deep breath. As she reheats the eggs she’d scrambled earlier for her family’s breakfast, I spill the whole story.
“Jesus, Jess. I had no clue he’d been a sperm donor.” She scoops some scrambled eggs on a plate and sets it in front of me, then adds a piece of toast. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
I lift my shoulders. “I was kind of ashamed.”
“Why? Because it wasn’t part of the perfect life you outlined for yourself?”
That’s the problem with having a sister; she knows too damned much. I eat a forkful of eggs so I don’t have to answer.
She sits beside me at the counter. “You’ve got to get over this always-wanting-everything-to-look-flawless thing, you know?”
“Yeah,” I say. Hell, she’s right. Maybe she’ll lighten up if I admit it. “I’m working on it. But you can’t tell Mom.”
“I won’t. That’s not my place.” She takes a bite of toast and chews thoughtfully. “But at some point, you’re probably going to need to.”
I blow out a sigh. “I don’t want to disappoint her.”
“If she doesn’t like something, that’s her problem. Don’t make it yours.” Erin’s face is earnest. “Of course, that’s easy for me to say, because I never had her approval.”
“Oh, Erin, that’s not true.”
“It is, and you know it. I was Erin the Errant, the pregnant teen. You were Little Miss Perfect, who could do no wrong, and then there was poor Doug the Dummy.”
I sigh. She’s right—we all had our roles in the family. And, to some extent, we’re all still playing them out.
“Well, I’m hardly perfect now.” I tell her about the scene with Zack. She’s shocked, but more empathetic than I had reason to hope for. I break down and cry again.
“This whole infertility thing has been rough for you,” Erin murmurs.
“It’s awful,” I blubber. “It’s like I’m starving and everyone else has lots of food, but I can’t have any.”
“Aw, sweetie—come here.”
She hugs me and pats my back, as if I’m one of her children, until my tears stop.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Sometimes it’s good to get your feelings out,” she says.
“What time do we need to leave?”
She glances at the clock on her stove. “In about five minutes. After I drop you, I have to pick up Jordan at school for an orthodontist appointment across town.”
“Okay. Let me fix my face before we go.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course, Miss Flawless Perfection.”
I should have known the remark wouldn’t go over well with Erin, who rarely wears makeup, pulls her hair into a perpetual ponytail, and dresses like a Sasquatch hunter. “I’m not trying to be perfect,” I snuffle. “I just don’t want to show up looking like a mascara-streaked crazy person.”
