Page 38 of Open Secrets
Maria shoots me a look, then turns to Nina. Her voice is clipped, almost rehearsed. “When I was nineteen, I got pregnant. And instead of dropping out of college and wrecking both our lives, I chose to terminate the pregnancy and stay in college. I don’t regret it. If anything, I’m glad I did, because that degree paid for our daughter’s treatment.”
Nina nods gently. “I don’t judge you. It was your choice to make. And this is a safe space.”
Maria leans forward, elbows digging into her knees, her hands twisting together. She doesn’t look at me when she goes on. “The reason I’m so angry about him telling someone about it is because Lyle has always been away. And it was… manageable. I had my dad. His parents. Even his sister, sometimes. There was a net. It wasn’t easy, but it was something.”
Her voice dips lower, unsteady. “But then in 2020, he was promoted to First Lieutenant and moved to North Carolina. And everything got harder. Around that time, Rain started getting sick.” Her throat tightens, the words catching.
The air shifts. I grip my knees to keep from reaching for her.
Maria presses on, sharper now, like if she slows down she’ll drown. “At the exact same time, the net disappeared. His parents stopped answering my calls. Mine—” She swallows, shakes her head. “I didn’t understand it at first. Why I was suddenly alone. Why nobody would help me while my daughter was sick.”
Her gaze finally flicks to me, then away, like it hurts to look. “And then I found out. Lyle had told his sister; he lied about that by the way. And of course, his very religious parents found out. They cut me off completely. And my dad…” Her voice cracks. Nina quietly hands her a tissue, and she presses it hard against her eyes.
“I went to my dad’s house. I had found out my daughter had leukaemia and… and I needed him. I was drowning, and I needed my dad. But instead of comfort, we fought. He said he couldn’t understand how I could have murdered his grandchild.” Her lip trembles, but she forces the words out. “I left. The next morning, Lyle went over to talk to him and found him unresponsive. He’d had stroke.”
Her whole-body caves in slightly, the fight draining out. “He survived, but he’s in a care home now. And I’m not allowed to visit. My own father. He won’t see me.”
Nina nods slowly, her voice measured but gentle. “That’s a tremendous amount to carry, Maria. No wonder you’ve felt so alone.”
Maria looks at me, then back at Nina, her voice low but burning. “The thing is, while my daughter was sick, I had three other children to take care of. On top of that, I had my practice to run, bills to pay, patients who depended on me. And I had no help. None.” She swallows hard, biting the words. “Lyle came home when Rain was first diagnosed, but then the Army gave him a choice: deploy or lose everything. We were depending on his insurance, so… he left. He left me alone with no one, with nothing, and…” She trails off, her jaw tightening as tears shimmer but don’t fall.
I sit there, listening, and it feels like the floor’s been ripped out under me. I had no idea. Not the full picture. I knew it was bad, sure—I knew she was stretched thin. But not this. Not the way she says it now, like she was drowning every single day while I was halfway across the world, pretending phone calls and care packages made me a husband.
What the hell was I doing? Telling myself I was serving my country while my wife was back here bleeding out in silence. I thought the insurance would pay for everything; the community would rally behind her. I had no idea my mother had already spoiled the well. Another reason I will never speak to her again.
How a woman can abandon her living breathing grandchild all for her morals is beyond me.
The only words that make it past the lump in my throat are the smallest ones. “I called you,” I say, raw, almost pleading. “All the time. I called. But you never said—”
“Because we’re not supposed to!” she snaps, turning on me, the fire flaring again. “Army Wife 101—don’t make your husband stress while he’s deployed. So I didn’t. I didn’t tell you just how close Rain came to dying. I didn’t tell you about the mountingdebt. And I sure as hell didn’t tell you how much I was failing as a mother.”
Her words slice through the room, and I feel every cut.
Maria doesn’t say more. She just keeps pressing the tissue to her face, shoulders shaking in silence.
“You’re an amazing mother,” I say, the words ripping out of me before I can stop them.
She pulls the tissue away from her eyes, her laugh bitter, wet. “Please. Half the time it was the kids raising themselves while I was at work or at the hospital. Jesus, Lyle—we didn’t even celebrate their birthdays. With Covid, they couldn’t go into the hospital, Rain couldn’t come home. Remi and Taylor took care of August, made their own food, sat through online classes without me. I was barely there.”
Her voice cracks on barely.
I shake my head, leaning forward, my chest burning. “No. Don’t say that. Me and the kids—we never once believed you were anything other than amazing. Not once.”
I want to reach for her hand, but she’s gripping that tissue like it’s the only thing keeping her from falling apart. All I can do is sit there, my own heart hammering, thinking of birthdays missed, the sound of laughter over speakerphone while I told myself I’d make it up to them next year. Next time. Always next time.
“You didn’t see them, Lyle,” Maria whispers, voice raw. “The way they looked at me. Hungry. Tired. Angry. They shouldn’t have had to… to be parents before they were even done being kids. That’s not amazing. That’s failure.”
The word hangs heavy in the room, the kind that echoes long after it’s spoken.
Before I can answer, Nina’s voice cuts in—soft, steady, threaded with calm authority. “Maria.”
Maria’s head snaps toward her, eyes rimmed red, tissue shredded between her fingers.
Nina doesn’t look away. “What you’re describing—what you survived—isn’t failure. It’s triage. You were in an impossible situation. Your daughter was critically ill, your husband was deployed, the world was shut down in a pandemic. And you kept your children alive. You kept them fed. You kept the roof over their heads.”
Maria shakes her head, but Nina keeps going, leaning forward now. “You’re holding yourself to a standard no human could meet. And I hear the guilt in your voice, but guilt doesn’t mean you failed. It means you cared. You cared so deeply that even doing the impossible still doesn’t feel like enough.”
Maria’s lip trembles, her shoulders shaking as she looks down.
