Page 151 of Sins of Arrogance

“I want a di­vorce be­cause I want to be happy,” I say baldly.

“You love your hus­band, Kara. You’re not go­ing to be happy di­vorced from him.” Bro­gan sounds so sure of him­self.

“I don’t ex­pect you to un­der­stand. Or even to care about my hap­pi­ness. But I ex­pect you to be fair. I’ve done my duty. I went through IVF at the age of eigh­teen so you could have the grand­son you and seanathair wanted.”

My grip on the chair arms tight­ens to the point of pain. Talk­ing about that time is still hard for me.

My ther­a­pist said it might al­ways be trig­ger­ing, but I’ll say what needs to be said, if there’s a chance it will sway my fa­ther.

“The hor­mone im­bal­ance that came af­ter – the rea­son for my post­par­tum de­pres­sion – could have been linked to the hor­mone ther­apy I was forced to en­dure for the har­vest­ing of my eggs at such a young age.”

Bro­gan gri­maces.

He doesn’t like hear­ing that. Well, I didn’t like liv­ing it.

“Did you know that the early mor­tal­ity rate for women who give birth in their teens is over twice that for women who don’t? That a sec­ond preg­nancy in her teens will in­crease that num­ber by 50%?”

The color leaches from my fa­ther’s face. “No.”

Is he won­der­ing if that’s the rea­son mom died? She mar­ried my fa­ther right af­ter her eigh­teenth birth­day and gave birth to me be­fore she turned nine­teen.

Preg­nancy and de­liv­ery weren’t easy on her and she suf­fered from ane­mia af­ter.

My mem­o­ries of my mom are of a kind, gen­tle, al­most ethe­real woman.

I re­al­ize as an adult, that her health was al­ways frag­ile and that’s why she seemed like she wasn’t en­tirely teth­ered to this world.

Mom had a dan­ger­ous mis­car­riage when she was nine­teen and was told by her OB to wait at least two years be­fore get­ting preg­nant again. Her next preg­nancy was no kinder to her health than the first two and af­ter she mis­car­ried a sec­ond time, her doc­tor strongly rec­om­mended she not get preg­nant again.

Ever.

She died giv­ing birth to Fiona at the age of twenty-five.

“You will not die young,” Mick says in a voice that sounds like ground glass.

I shrug. “I hope for Fitz’s sake I don’t.”

“Stop talk­ing like this. You are not go­ing to die!” My fa­ther slams his fist down onto his desk.

“The point is not how old I will be when I do, but that you’ve al­ready taken too much from me. I sac­ri­ficed my fu­ture for the good of your mob, and now I want to take some of it back.”

Bro­gan’s head rears back, like I punched him in the jaw. “It’s your mob too.”

“If it is, if I’m as much of a mem­ber as your sol­diers…” I don’t for a minute be­lieve I am, but I do be­lieve my fa­ther likes to be­lieve he’s a fair, if harsh, man. “Then in all fair­ness, you will honor my re­quest.”

“Dier­dre will be leav­ing to re­turn to Dublin soon.” My fa­ther rubs his eyes, like he’s tired.

Soon is not im­me­di­ately and as long as she’s here, my son is at risk.

“Dier­dre’s be­ing here and the way she’s treated me might be the cat­a­lyst, but she’s not the prob­lem.” Be­ing mar­ried to a man who places mob busi­ness ahead of my feel­ings and needs is.

That’s not some­thing my fa­ther will ever un­der­stand though, so I don’t bother say­ing it.

Bro­gan sighs, sud­denly look­ing ev­ery one of his fifty-two years. “If you want to di­vorce your hus­band, you have my per­mis­sion on two con­di­tions.”

Of course there are con­di­tions. “What are they?”

“The first is that you act as a mother to the sons born of a sur­ro­gate.”