The timeline didn’t make sense. If the child was asking questions in 1960, he was older. She must have been pregnant before we even met. Before the jazz club. Before me. That meant her “fear” that night wasn’t just about her father finding us together.
She was running from the shame of an illegitimate child in a high-society family. She needed to disappear, and a black mechanic was the perfect cover for a total exit. I felt a wave of nausea. I was the smoke screen she used to vanish. I stood up and paced the small room, betrayals stacking up like bricks. She let me believe I was the love of her life, the reason she gave up her wealth. In reality, she was already an outcast. She had nothing left to lose when she met me.
I looked at the wedding photo on the dresser. Her smile looked forced now. Did she ever love me? Or was I just the sturdy raft that kept her from drowning? I felt like a fool, an old man tricked by a pretty face and a sad story.
Top Articles
