Page 70 of Flawed

My mother just learned to text, and I smile bigger. She loves asking if she can text me.

"Yeah, that'd be great, Mom, thanks."

"And you'll confirm you got my text, correct, ma chérie?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes, Mom. I will respond to your text."

"Okay. See you tonight," she states.

"Bye." I hang up, make a few peanut butter crackers, and eat them. I sip on a glass of water and go take a shower.

When I get out, I glance at my phone.

Mom:Seven works perfect.

Mom:Why aren't you texting me back?

Me:Got it! Sorry, was in the shower.

Mom:I'll give you a pass on this one.

Me:Okay. Don't text me anymore. I need to get ready.

I put down my phone and try to rehearse what I'll say to my parents in front of the mirror.

"Mom. Dad. I'm pregnant," I blurt out, then mutter, "Not the smoothest announcement."

I take a few minutes then try again. "Mom. Dad. I had sex with a—"

Nope! That doesn't sound right.

I straighten my shoulders in the mirror and raise my chin. "Mom. Dad. I'm going to be a single mother."

I stare at myself then groan.

Why can't this be simple?

Why doesn't my book have something on how to tell your parents you're knocked up and not telling the father?

I give up and continue to get ready. When I'm done, I hop into a taxi and head over to my parents' house. It's early, but for some reason, I want to see my mom before my dad gets home.

The taxi pulls up to their building, and my insides quiver harder.

This is it. I'm out of time. I have to tell them.

I have no doubt Massimo will if I don't hold up my end of the bargain. And it's not fair to keep him involved in this or for my parents to hear it from anyone besides me.

I take a deep breath, get out of the taxi, and walk through the building. I step into the elevator, go down the hall, and knock on their door.

She opens it and embraces me as soon as the door shuts. "Ma chérie!"

I squeeze her tight, my eyes filling with tears. It's been too long since my mom hugged me. I realize how much I've isolated myself and missed her.

She retreats. "Let me look at you." She puts her hands on my cheeks, and then her face falls.

Nervous butterflies dance in my stomach. I ask, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

She peers closer at me. Her voice changes when she asks, "Why are you glowing?"

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