I know she’s right, about corporations and profit, and all the things that drive journalism. But I also sense that, for Luisa, that’s not the whole story. What changed for her? What made her build that wall around her own heart, fill her life with work and deadlines?
“I don’t even know why I’m doing any of this anymore.” She balls a napkin in her fist and then drops it into the half-empty box. “And now my mom thinks I’ll never get another job and is trying to marry me off.”
I can’t resist laughing out loud. “Oh, wait,” I say, handing her half of a bright purple “galaxy” doughnut, which conveniently matches the theme of her PJs. “How was your opera date?”
“Something came up,” she says, picking at the sprinkles on her doughnut. “It’s on my to-do list.”
“Wow,” I respond, a sly grin spreading across my face. “Sounds romantic. What came up? Laundry day?” I eye her onesie knowingly. She shoves my thigh with her bootie. “Ouch!” I laugh, swiping purple icing from my mouth.
A part of me wishes she had gone on the date, and he was wonderful and sexy and kind, everything she wants in a man. I’d relish the chance to know Luisa vulnerable and connected—Luisa in love.
She takes a bite of her doughnut. “This one is surprisingly yummy,” she announces.
“So, will you put him off forever?” I ask.
“Not likely,” she says. “Mami has been harassing me nonstop.”She looks toward the front door of her house. “I love my family, but sometimes they can feel a little… smothering? Mami’s so deep in my business.” Luisa falls silent, and I decide not to respond. Something in her expression tells me she may be working up the courage to open up to me, just a little bit. “I guess one reason I loved my work,” she says slowly, “was because, there, I could be completely independent, totally in control of the story.”
Yes, control. That’s clearly a key driver for Luisa, along with radical independence. I wonder what it would feel like to be entirely independent and in control of my life. I also wonder why Luisa can’t see the gift that’s right inside her house—the love and connection and support.
“I get what you’re saying, but—as I think you know—I don’t exactly have a family, apart from Aidan,” I respond, deciding that honesty is the best approach. “So when I look at your family, and how big and boisterous and loving it seems to be, I honestly feel a little envious.”
We so often want what we don’t have.
“What happened to your family?” she asks, her voice gently breaking into my thoughts. “Whyareyou and Aidan all alone?”
“It was just me and my parents in Jackson,” I say. “They kind of sucked as parents—all they ever cared about was appearances, looking like a good family, which, to them, meant a respectable family.” An image of my mother comes to mind, for the first time in many years. She’s in the kitchen, polishing a silver chafing dish, the same one she gripped so tightly the last day I saw her.
“So, you didn’t want to live by their rules?” Luisa asks.
“It wasn’t exactly that straightforward,” I tell her. “When I got pregnant, they thought it was their decision what would happen next—the path that brought the least shame on them. We lived in a very conservative community.”
“You mean they wanted you to quietly get rid of the pregnancy.”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. They wanted me to do everything quietly. I was always too loud, too attention-grabbing. “And so did Aidan’s father,” I tell her.
“But you didn’t want an abortion?” she asks. “Even though you knew you’d have to raise him alone?”
“I mean, I wasn’t really thinking about it on a philosophical level. It’s just that…” I pause, trying to form the words that might explain how I decided to leave everything and everyone I knew. “So, you know how people are always talking about ‘my body, my choice’?” I ask her. “Well, I just watched as they all stood around determining what was best for me, as if I had no say. And I had this instinctive feeling—deep down in my gut—that I was meant to carry that pregnancy. It wasn’t aboutallpeople andallpregnancies. It wasn’t a rational decision or a moral choice. It was a sense, so profound, that I wanted to be Aidan’s mom,” I say. “And I decided that if I was going to be a mom, I would try to be a good mom, which is why I left my family behind.”
Luisa looks at me, clearly puzzled.
“I felt like I couldn’t even begin to do that with them in my life, reminding me that I’d never amount to anything, that I was bringing shame on them and on Aidan’s father, just by existing. So I told them I’d ‘take care of it,’ and I left.” I look up at her, desperate to avoid the hurt of it all, but still forcing myself to say the words. “Wanna know the last thing my mother told me before I walked out?” The image of her holding that damned chafing dish returns to my mind. “She said that I couldn’t possibly raise a child. I’d be incapable of keeping a job and I’d fail as a mother.” I shrug. “And now here we are. I guess she was right. It’s a miracle that we’ve warded off disaster for this long.”
My heart sinks into my gut, and I try to push away all the worry, the anxiety about what might be next for my little family.
“And that was the last time you saw them?” Luisa asks.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’ve only spoken to my parents once since I left Mississippi—to tell them I didn’t have an abortion, and they have a grandson.” I feel the ache swelling in my chest, recalling that conversation. “It was Aidan’s first birthday. I had made him chocolate cake from a box. We were sitting together at the kitchen table, while he smeared icing all over his face.” I smile, remembering those fat little cheeks. “Byron and Justine had just left—they came over with streamers and silly hats, and we had animpromptu birthday party.” I recall the bright orange kitty-cat piano Justine gave him, which Aidan banged on incessantly—his first musical instrument. “I was so outrageously happy,” I continue. “I had this amazing kid—this precious, healthy, thriving son—and together we had pulled through the hardest year of my life.” I can still see Byron coming through the doorway of my apartment on that day, a gallon of ice cream in one hand and a carefully wrapped gift in the other, smiling like a proud uncle. And Justine, looking goofy in the very best way, wearing that pointy blue paper hat, while she taped bright streamers to my rickety old ceiling fan. “I realized that I didn’tneedmy parents,” I say, “but it seemed somehow cruel to keep Aidan a secret from them. So I called.”
“What did they say?” Luisa asks softly.
“Basically that I made a huge mistake, and they would have nothing to do with me or my son or the embarrassment he brought on our family,” I tell her, wanting to push away the sadness, but knowing that—even after all these years—it’s impossible. “I told them I felt sorry for them, because they had no idea what they were missing.” I recall ending the conversation, my sweet boy babbling in the background, still stuffing fistfuls of cake into his mouth, while I exchanged those final words with my parents. “And so,” I tell Luisa, “that was that.”
“You’re amazing, Holly,” Luisa says, her voice swelling with admiration. “You didn’t let them define you. You did what I want so badly to do—struck out on your own, courageous and independent.”
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” I reply.
What I wish I could explain is that the choice led me to exactly the opposite of independence. It sent me into an intense and profound connection to another person—the kind of bond that never, ever allows me to make a decision for myself without concern about how it might affect Aidan. And even though, every once in a while, this connectedness feels like an almost unbearable burden, most of the time it’s the ground under my feet and the source of every true joy I have in my life.
