“So tell me,” I say. “Tell me what I need to know.”
I think Something in my voice hits her, because she stares at me for a long second. Then, she lets out a breath that seems to break something inside her. Her shoulders slump. Her hands tremble slightly as she walks toward the shade beside the trailer and lowers herself slowly into one of the lawn chairs.
She pulls out a worn pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket, grabs a lighter, and fumbles to light it. Her fingers shake too much on the first try. The second time, it catches. She drags in smoke like it’s the only thing steadying her, then she looks up at me with tired, sunken eyes—eyes that have seen too much, done too little to stop it.
“You need to sit,” she says. Her voice is low. Hollow. “We can’t keep standing if we’re going to talk about this.”
I stay still for a moment. My body feels tight, wired with the kind of dread that settles in your bones before a storm.
I watch her in silence.
The cigarette trembles slightly between her fingers, the smoke curling into the thick, humid air like ghosts she’s long since stopped trying to exorcise. Her eyes don’t meet mine, and I know she’s stalling. I know she won’t speak until I do what she asked.
I let out a sigh—part impatient, part resigned.
Fine. She wants me to sit? I’ll sit, as long as it gets me the answers I need, I’ll give her this small victory.
I step forward, slow, every muscle in my body wired tight. The cheap plastic chair groans under my weight as I lower myself onto it, the crack of it loud in the heavy quiet. I sit acrossfrom her, my elbows resting on my knees, and I don’t say a word. I just wait.
I brace myself for whatever version of the truth she’s willing to give.
She finally looks up.
“I can’t tell you exactly what happened to Lucas,” she says. Her voice is rough, like her throat hasn’t held honesty in a long time. “But I will tell you the things I think you should know. And I’ll give you something when I’m done.”
My jaw clenches. I don’t respond. My chest rises and falls a little faster now, and I don’t know if it’s anticipation or dread—or both. But I wait.
Whatever she gives me, I’ll take it.
“I gave birth to Lucas when I was eighteen,” she starts, voice distant. She doesn’t look at me now. She looks out at nothing, the smoke drifting around her face like a veil. “Just a girl back then. My mom was already dead. My father was alive, but calling him a parent would be generous. He was a drunk. Mean. Loud. An abuser.”
She pauses to take a drag of the cigarette, like the smoke helps her swallow the memory.
“I left home at fifteen. Got a job at a small strip club by seventeen. It wasn’t glamorous, but it fed me. Kept me off the streets. It paid enough that I managed to buy this trailer. Back then, that felt like something. A win.”
I don’t interrupt. I didn’t come here to learn her story, but I can’t deny that it’s starting to grip something deep in me.
“Then came Lucas,” she says, a bitter smile flickering on her lips before fading. “I got pregnant after a night at the club. It wasn’t consensual. I don’t remember much—just that I was drunk, too drunk to say no, too drunk to fight. He was a stranger, I knew nothing about him, I just knew that he wasn’t American, but a backpacker traveler from Spain.”
Her eyes don’t change as she says it. They stay empty. Detached.
“I didn’t want to keep the baby. I tried to get rid of it. I tried everything. Nothing worked. My body kept holding on. Then the bump showed. I couldn’t hide it anymore. The club fired me, of course. No one wants a pregnant girl on stage.”
She laughs, dry and sharp like broken glass.
“And that was it. That was the beginning of the fall.”
I swallow hard. There’s a tightness in my throat I didn’t expect.
She shifts, flicking ash to the cracked concrete.
“I didn’t love him at first,” she says, voice quieter now, worn and fragile like old paper. “Lucas.”
She exhales, shaky, and then continues.
“I hated the pregnancy. Hated the way it trapped me and made me feel like I was drowning in a life I never chose. But the day I gave birth to him…” she trails off, lips trembling. “When they handed me that little boy, when I saw his face, his beautiful face, I swear to God, I’ve never seen anything so perfect in my life.”
She stops, and when she looks up, her eyes are rimmed red. She’s trying hard not to fall apart in front of me. But I see it. The guilt. The love. The weight of everything she’s held inside for years.
