Page 32 of Knocked Up by my Best Friend's Brothers

“Until it wasn’t,” I reply. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch since I got back. It took me a while to settle in and figure out a way forward.”

“Better late than never,” she says, and I don’t miss the snarky undertone. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Do you want some?”

“I’d like some, yes. Thank you.”

“Come on in, then.”

I follow her into the kitchen, catching glimpses of my childhood along the way. The house hasn’t changed much over the past seven years, with the exception of a fresh coat of paint and a couple of new pieces of furniture. Everything else is the same as I remember it—midcentury modern and way too dull for my taste.

Her hands shake as she pours me a cup of coffee, then leaves the milk and the sweetener out for me. “I’ve got sugar, if you want. Though I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

There she is.

“I thought I’d lost you for a second,” I mutter and settle for the sweetener. Hopefully, it will soften the bitter taste in my mouth.

“What’s that?”

“Sweetener is fine, thank you,” I say.

She gives me a long look as we settle at the breakfast table, close to the window. The garden looks nice, though I don’t know how she’s able to tend to it, given her condition.

“The boy next door gets fifty bucks a week to clear out the weeds and trim the bushes,” Aunt Mary says, perhaps picking up on my thoughts.

“Samson?” I ask.

“No, they moved out two years ago. Another couple moved in. The Smiths,” she says. “The husband’s a cop; the wife is a hairdresser. Their son is a good boy. Likes to help.”

“I’m glad you’ve got some support here.”

“Never asked for it, but I always welcome it,” she mumbles, her gaze dropping for a moment. “What are you doing here, Christa?”

I give her a confused look. “Honestly, the bare minimum toward my former state-appointed caregiver.”

“I’m your aunt. Your father’s sister. I took you in after they died.”

“Yes. State-appointed caregiver.”

She might’ve pinched a nerve with the whole sugar thing, but I’ve got years’ worth of pent-up rage about the way she treated me. I’d hoped the years we spent apart might’ve made her a tad more introspective, but I’m starting to think I came in with too-high expectations.

“Would you have preferred foster care? Living in squalor while Linda burned through your allowance on crack?” Aunt Mary scoffs. “Please. Christa, I did alright by you.”

“You still don’t see it, do you?”

“What? See what?”

“The way you treated me; the way you spoke to me.”

Aunt Mary shakes her head, but she still can’t meet my gaze. “I did the best I could under those circumstances. Nobody asked me if I wanted to raise somebody else’s kid.”

“You know what? Never mind. I don’t know why I bother.”

“I couldn’t have my own, and then Ben died. By the time you came to me, I was already over the whole raise-a-family thing, alright? I just wanted to be left alone.”

“You should’ve sent me back to child and family services then.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not? Real talk: we’re both adults now,” I reply.

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