Page 101 of The Beach Trap

“Blake is really—”

“I’d rather not talk about that,” she says, cutting me off. I cringe at my mom’s choice of words. Not “her”—a living, breathing person—but “that”—a thing, a nuisance, something that could be ignored. Not anymore.

I try again: “If she’s going to be a part of my life—”

“That’s enough, Kat,” my mom says, a note of finality in her voice. It’s a tone and a phrase I’ve heard throughout my life, but usually when we’re in public and my mom doesn’t want to make a scene. But there’s no one else here to pretend or put on a show for. It’s just us.

I exhale a slow breath and pick up my fork, cutting a hunk of chicken off the breast. Such a big bite might not be ladylike, but I’m ready for this meal to be over.

The silence between us has gone to full-on awkward as we both stew in our separate thoughts.

I have no idea what she’s thinking since she never lets it show. It strikes me that my mom is as much a stranger to me as my dad was. It feels almost like my entire life has been like a mirage—beautiful and shimmering from a distance, but when you get up close, it vanishes and all you’re left with is a dry, empty desert.

While that might describe my past, I don’t want to let it be my future. If my mom won’t talk to me about this, then there’s really no point in my being here at all. I spear the last bite of chicken on my plate, preparing for a speedy exit, when Mom finally starts to speak.

“I’m smarter than you give me credit for,” she says, her voice halting.

I freeze, unsure where this is going.

She continues speaking, not meeting my eyes. “I knew your father was unfaithful—all those business trips and weekendsaway. But he got it out of his system and came home to be the father and husband he needed to be.”

That part is debatable, but I keep my mouth shut. For one thing, I’m still chewing the too-big bite, and for another, now that my mom is finally talking, I don’t want her to stop.

“It was all fine untilthat womandied,” she says, shaking her head as if the memory still stings. “He lost all sense of dignity, grieving for her as if he’d lost half of his heart. And he kept talking about the child—how the girl was his responsibility. That he couldn’t just walk away.”

I swallow, the chicken barely making it past the lump in my throat. My parents, the people I’ve spent my whole life looking up to, suddenly seem like victims of their own making. My dad, quietly grieving a woman he loved. My mom, standing by and doing nothing.

“I reminded your father about his real responsibility—to this family.” She punctuates her words by tapping her freshly manicured nails on the table. “To me, his wife, and hislegitimatedaughter. I told him I wouldn’t let him destroy this family, the life we built together. It’s one thing to ignore what you can’t see—but I was not about to let him bring that girl into our house.”

That girl.

My heart hurts for Blake—not the strong and admirable woman she’s become, but the nine-year-old girl who was left grieving her mother and wondering what happened to her father.

I wonder what it would’ve been like if she’d come to live with us. If my parents could’ve handled being whispered about instead of being the ones doing the whispering. If Blake would have been able to thrive, or if the pressure of this house and this family would have snuffed out her light.

We’ll never know. The past can’t be changed, but I can do my best to change the future.

Across the table, my mother delicately dabs the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin before setting it beside her plate.

“I told him it was his choice,” she continues. “If he wanted to be a father toher, he was going to do it on his own. I was not about to raise another woman’s daughter. And your father was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a stupid man. He knew he couldn’t raise a child alone. He made the smart choice, the right choice. He gave the girl’s grandparents some money, and he chose his real family.”

He chose us. He chose me. The realization should make me happy—I’ve always wanted to feel wanted—but instead, it breaks my heart and makes me ashamed of both my parents.

Ashamed of my mother for putting him in the position to choose—for thinking it was acceptable to leave a motherless girl without her last living parent. And my father for not being strong enough to stand up to her, for throwing money at the problem—and it clearly wasn’t even enough. I can’t believe he could walk away from Blake. From my sister.

I could’ve had a sister.

My eyes well with tears for Blake. For all the years she spent alone, wondering why her father never came back for her. Wondering why I never answered a single one of her letters.

The letters.

I push my chair back and walk out of the dining room, leaving my mother exposed and alone. If I stay here any longer, I’ll say something I can’t take back.

Upstairs, my bedroom is just the way it was in high school. The Tiffany blue accent wall, the framed family photos, the four-poster bed, and the Tupperware storage box beneath it.

I sit on the floor and slide the box out. As I open the lid, the musty smell of memories hits me. Mementos from a life that used to feel so important and worth protecting: my bat mitzvahinvitation, an old photo album, a newspaper article I wrote for theAtlanta Jewish Timesabout my experience at a high school program in Israel, a Beanie Baby, and Playbills from every musical I was ever in. And beneath it all, a shoebox that holds my letters from Blake, ironically tied with the same blue string we used to make friendship bracelets.

I carefully slide that first letter out of its envelope and look at the words written in Blake’s twelve-year-old handwriting.

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