“Tell me everything.”
So he did.
Eight months earlier, Emily had called him.
Not me.
David.
She was pregnant.
She had been twenty-two, finishing university, unmarried, and completely unprepared for how quickly her life had changed.
The pregnancy had not been planned.
But she wanted the baby.
The father was someone she’d dated briefly.
They were no longer together, but there had been no terrible breakup or dramatic betrayal.
She had told him about the pregnancy.
He had agreed to be involved in whatever way they eventually decided was best.
Emily had told her mother.
My sister Patricia had been shocked, apparently, but supportive.
And then Emily had called David.
I looked at her.
“Why him?”
Emily lowered her eyes.
Because two years earlier, she had called me.
And I had failed her.
That phone call had nothing to do with pregnancy.
She had called to tell me something deeply personal.
She told me she was gay.
She told me she had fallen in love with a woman.
And I responded badly.
There is no kinder way to describe it.
I said things that came from my own assumptions, discomfort, and limited understanding.
At the time, part of me believed I was expressing concern.
