Page 112 of Salty Pickle

I don’t know what to say. So many emotions roil through me that I can’t contain them all. Shock. Rage. Relief. Hope?

“Can we come in?” Mom asks.

I take a step back.

Dad glances around. “Nice place. He’s the dad?”

I shrug.

Mom can’t stop staring at my belly. “You’re carrying higher than I did. Are you feeling okay?”

“Mostly.”

Mom walks to the sofa and sits down. “Please let’s talk. I know you’re very angry with us. I think we can find some common ground. Can we try?”

She sounds so reasonable.

I sit on a chair. When Dad enters the room, our attention is drawn to the dining room with a scrabbling sound.

It’s Matilda, jumping down and racing for the living room, head down, aiming for us.

“Matilda! No!” I stand, but Matilda only butts the chair where I’m sitting.

When she spots Dad, she trots over, pressing her head into his hand like a puppy.

“So, this is the infamous Matilda,” he says, rubbing her temple. “Mom always had goats like this around.”

“Until you sold her farm to a developer.”

He lets out a long rush of air and sits next to Mom. Matilda follows him and stands by his legs for more attention.

Mom straightens her skirt. “Let’s clear this up right away. April and Summer felt this was probably the crux of your upset.”

“You talked to them?” My body flashes hot.

“They contacted us,” Mom says. “They were worried. They said things weren’t on solid footing with the baby’s father, and they wanted more people on your side.”

“Like you were on my side about being vegetarian? Or loving the farm? Or being different from you all?”

Mom shares a pained glance with Dad. “We didn’t do right by you on that. We kept thinking it was a phase. We should have gone to more trouble to cook for you.”

“And maybe not sold the only thing I ever cared about?”

Dad leans forward, his elbows braced on his knees. “I know that farm meant a lot to you, but you aren’t aware of what it meant to me. My father tried to force me there. To expand it and work in the sun, caring for animals I didn’t love like they did. I wanted out of there. They tried to trap me. When Mom was gone, I could finally eject that piece of my history.”

I didn’t know any of this. “But I wanted it.”

“You were so bright, so smart. I thought I was saving you from yourself.”

And look where I am, holed up in an apartment with a man who barely tolerates my lifestyle, same as them.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

“Will you let us help you?” Mom asks. “I promise we will respect your choices. Vegetarian. Composting. Low energy usage. Water conservation.”

Would they?

“I won’t leave without Matilda,” I say.

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