Page 46 of An Unexpected Encounter

Speak of the devil and she shall appear.

Sliding the icon up, I answer and place it on speakerphone.

“Hey Mom.”

“Selena, you sound horrible,” her nasally voice barks out. I can already see the way her nose is scrunching up in disdain, like she might catch something. Don’t worry, Mom, you can’t catch what I have.

“Well, I’m sick. What do you want?”

“That’s a fine way to talk to your mother. Do I have to want something to talk to you?”

You normally do, is what I want to say, but I don’t.

“No Mom, you don’t. What do I owe the joy of this call to, then?”

“I was seeing if you were ready to apologize for the way you behaved at dinner. You and that boyfriend of yours? Abel wants to make Sunday family dinners a thing, but I don’t want any more of the abuse you subjected me to at the last one.”

“I have nothing to apologize for, Mom. Your memory is very warped about that dinner, as I’m the one that always bears the brunt of your verbal abuse. I have no desire to go to a family dinner where I’ll be treated that way again.”

I want to scream and it’s taking everything in me not to. Anger builds inside me, pushing all the nausea to the side. How dare she make me out to be the villain.

“Selena, are you listening to me?”

Shit, I totally zoned out. I didn’t even realize she was talking. That she responded to me.

“Yeah, and again, I’m not apologizing. So if that takes me out of the family dinners, then oh well. Since Dad’s death, I’ve been a last thought to you. Enjoy your new family. May they make you prouder than I did.”

Nausea consumes me again, overshadowing the anger, and I end the call, not caring that Mom is still talking. Jumping up as fast as I can, I rush to the bathroom, tripping over my own feet and crashing into the wall. I extend my arm out, bracing myself as pain shoots up it.

Great, Selena. Let’s hurt yourself on top of everything. Unlike the other times, I’m not so lucky this one. Vomit spews from my mouth, half of it making it in the toilet while the other lands on the floor.

Gross!

Now I have to clean it up.

Once I no longer feel like I’m going to puke my insides out, I head to the kitchen and pull a roll of paper towels from the pantry to clean up the mess.

Why couldn’t I have a mother who loves me? Who’s proud of me and the accomplishments I’ve made? No, I get the mother who tells me what a disappointment I am and how fat I am, even though I’m far from it. Yeah, my weight fluctuates, but I’m nowhere near what’s considered overweight. And if I was, who fucking cares?

When I’ve gotten everything cleaned up, I pull the trash bag out of the can and tie it up, making sure to put it in the trashcan in the kitchen. I’ll take it out tomorrow. If the guys stop by, maybe I can get them to take it down for me, so I don’t have to walk up and down the stairs.

I’m so over all the repairs that need to be done in this building. Sam and I had already talked about going to take some tours of some complexes when he gets back. Jose is trying to convince me of the advantages of owning a home, especially with the babies on the way.

I’ve put off moving for almost two years. When the new owners took over the building, it went to shit. Nothing gets fixed, and it’s hard as hell to even get someone on the phone. They have no problem taking my money every month, though. That check is cashed before the ink dries.

I flip the switch to turn on the kitchen light and it flickers, before finally staying on. Suddenly my stomach growls, so I open the fridge and pull the leftover soup out.

I set it in the microwave, putting the timer on four minutes, and pull the drawer out to get a spoon.

Just before the time is up, the microwave sparks and makes a god-awful sound. I hit stop.

Great, now I need a new microwave. I’ll need one to warm the babies’ bottles in the middle of the night. Or will I breastfeed? Fuck, what if they want to eat at the same time? How in the hell will I do that?

My mind immediately imagines breastfeeding two children. I cup my breasts with my hands, mourning what they’ll look like after two children. Not to mention when am I going to sleep?

How am I going to raise these babies on my own? I know Sam and Jose plan to help, but I hate imposing on them. My chest tightens and my palms get sweaty at the thought of keeping my babies from their biological father, too. What if something medically is wrong with them, and they need bone marrow or something from their father? What do I do?

Stop Selena. You’re going to go mad with these thoughts. Just calm down. There’s time to figure everything out—you just found out. Not to mention they may not want to be a father and would rather keep it a secret.

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