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After the accident last night and this article and a microscope over my life, I’m certain no judge will grant me full parental rights—which just proves Jeremy was working this whole time to help Rivera.
What a mess.
It’s why I can’t bring myself to answer Lincoln’s text. Or his calls, really. Sam was clear that I need to rest today, and having my blood pressure skyrocket with this bullshit isn’t real relaxing.
So I ignore him.
I ignore my mother’s call, too, and my father’s a little later.
My father.
A sense of guilt washes over me. It’s my fault he had to stop playing the game he loved. I was at the root of why Eddie did what he did.
I want to talk to my father. I should answer.
But I can’t bring myself to face any of this today—especially not since I’m gearing up for the difficult conversation of letting my son know we won’t be going ahead with that whole plan to move in with his real-life hero.
I ignore Lincoln when he tries again.
I lay in bed and cry away most of the day. I flip through the pictures of us when we were happy that are saved to my phone, and my finger hovers over the delete button.
I can’t make myself press it.
I force myself to shower and to eat, and then I get back in bed. I try to watch a Netflix show, but I can’t concentrate—a nice side effect of the concussion.
I can’t make any big decisions right now, but the decision to end it with Lincoln came well before the concussion.
All I can think about is that horrible article and how it’s going to affect my life moving forward. Rivera really covered all the bases, making me look like a fool for taking Lincoln back and making Lincoln look like a manipulative liar. Somehow Eddie came out looking like a golden boy for confessing the sins he committed in order to protect his son—something any other parent would’ve done.
Except any other parent might’ve also attempted to protect their son’s heart during the detonation and possibly avoided criminally assaulting another man and ending his career too soon.
That’s not how the article made it sound.
Admittedly, part of me feels bad for Lincoln that he was put in that position. I realize he had no control over what his father did all those years ago. He was just doing what he thought he had to do as a teenager.
But he didn’t have to keep it from me once we reconnected. That was a choice he made, and it’s that choice I can’t seem to force myself to get over.
It’s about an hour before the kids are supposed to get home when I hear the front door open and slam shut.
“Jolene?” Sam calls.
“In here,” I yell back, mostly because I’m comfortable under my covers and I don’t really have any desire to get up before Jonah gets home.
She walks into my room. “You’re pregnant?” she demands.
I close my eyes and sink back into my pillow. “You looked at my chart? That’s a violation of my privacy.”
“You told me yesterday I could look, so I did. I wanted to make sure you had the right home care.”
She called my bluff, dammit. Dammit!
“You wanna talk about it?” she asks.
“I sure don’t. If I did, I would have told you about it last night.”
“Oh, so it’s okay for you to keep secrets…but not him?”
I offer her a glare rather than a reply.
