Page 98 of Resisting Isaac
My father tries to stand, but Isaac stops him. Sits beside him and shakes his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”
The act of kind thoughtfulness makes me want to kiss him here and now. But I refrain. Then take a deep breath and face both of my parents.
“So, I’m home because I have news.”
My mother scoffs. “Not for your father’s birthday then?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Papá. Beyond sorry that I missed it this year.”
He waves my regret away.
I inhale sharply when Isaac stands beside me. He places a hand on my lower back. Steadying me. Supporting me.
He gives me the strength I need. With my mom, it’s best to rip the band aid off. If I delay, later she’ll feel like I was mocking her by not coming out with it.
“I know you wanted to have dinner, Mamá, and I smell your amazing cooking from here. But Isaac and I,” I begin, mustering the closest thing to a smile I can manage in his direction. “We’re having a baby.”
For a moment, there is only silence. Blissful silence.
And then all hell breaks loose.
I knew this wasn’t going to go well.
I just didn’t expect the praying.
Or the wailing.
Or the actual rosary beads flying out of my mother’s hands like holy weapons.
In rapid-fire Spanish, my mom demands I repeat this.
“I’m pregnant,” I say again, voice steady even though I feel like I’ve been tossed into a hurricane.
There’s a beat of silence. Then my mother gasps like I’ve just told her I committed a felony.
“Ay Dios mío.” She crosses herself three times. “La vergüenza. The shame.NowDiego will never?—”
“Mamá.” I cut her off, my voice cutting her deeply as my words are about to. “Diego and I are not a thing. We have never been a thing, and we will never be a thing. Maybe when Papá passes on, you can marry him, since you think he’s so wonderful. I hope you like missionary.”
Isaac stifles a snort from beside me. If I’m not mistaken, my father does too.
“You disrespect us, Elena!” she cries. “Always so selfish! You didn’t even give Diego a chance. Andnow—you’ve let somecowboyput a baby in you?!”
She spits out cowboy like a vulgar curse word.
Isaac shifts beside me, standing tall but quiet. Respectful. But I can feel the tension rolling off him, see the way his spine goes stiff.
“You, Mamá, disrespect me by not allowing me to make my own choices. I’m not a child anymore. I haven’t been for a long time.”
My dad clears his throat. Still sitting. Still calm. “Let’s all take a breath,” he says, slow and gentle. “Mija, my strong-spirited girl.”
I brace myself for a speech about how I never can quite just be what they want.
But then he smiles. And not just any smile. The kind he used to give me when I brought home a perfect report card or stayed up to help with his dialysis machine when Mom had to work late.
“You are glowing. And nothing—nothing—makes me happier to see.”
Tears sting my eyes, unexpected and immediate.
