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“Yes.”

Mom’s voice stays even. “I wanted to be a mother. I did not want a husband. I did not want a life built around someone else’s body or moods or expectations. Henry understood that better than anyone I knew.”

I stare at the Holiday World magnet on the fridge. The little cartoon turkey smiles back like an idiot.

“And he agreed?”

“Yes.”

“To what? Knock you up and disappear?”

Her face flinches.

“I’m sorry,” I say, because she’s still my mother.

“You’re angry.”

“No kidding.”

“You’re allowed.”

“Thanks.”

She almost smiles. It makes her look sadder.

“We thought we were being practical,” she says. “Young people are very good at mistaking selfishness for practicality.”

That sounds like something she has had years to write in her head.

“What was the deal?”

“There wasn’t a legal agreement, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did he see me?”

“I asked him to stay away.”

The anger in me skids. Not stops. Skids.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it was cleaner.”

“For who?”

“For me,” she says. “At first.”

Mom looks down at her mug. “I didn’t want him coming in and out of your life. I didn’t want his world touching ours before I knew what ours was. And later, after enough time passed, I didn’t know how to open the door without making everything worse.”

“So you just didn’t.”

“No.”

“For twenty-eight years.”

“Yes.”

The kitchen is quiet again.