Page 70 of Newly Tied

“Where’s Mom? Is she cowering in the bathroom?” Lang asked, teasing her. “Distraught downstairs in the basement?”

As we’d suspected, there was no emergency, as his mother was in no need of emotional rescue. But that didn’t mean Talia wasn’t. From the look on her face, I could tell something was very wrong.

“What happened?” I asked, my happiness at seeing her instantly replaced with dread because evidently, she felt like she was drowning in whatever was going on and needed to grab hold of me and hang on for dear life.

“His daughter, my half sister. I just met her,” she whispered into my shoulder. “She’s not even a whole year younger than me. That means her mother and Mom were pregnant at practically the same time.”

I had no idea what to say.

“You knew he cheated,” Lang reminded her. “This is not news.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You knew he had a daughter when he left. Mom told us.”

She pursed her lips.

He took a breath. “But knowing it is one thing though, and meeting your half sister is another, right?”

“Yes.” She struggled to get the word out.

I hugged her tight, and then the three of us retreated to a quiet corner in the living room, overlooking the backyard. Everyone else congregated in the front room, talking loudly, watching TV, but it was evident we needed to talk about this uninterrupted. Lang put his arms around both of us and kissed her cheek.

“I don’t know why I care,” she said, her voice betraying her as it cracked, little stutters of breath making her tremble. “I knew he had a child, but I thought––”

“The child was new at the time of the divorce,” Lang stated.

“Yes.” She deflated, sounding both sad and tired. “It was so long ago, but we’re almost the same age, and I—I wasn’t expecting that.”

Glancing at Lang, I noted the furrowed brows, his clenched jaw, and felt the simmering rage right there below the surface. And I knew he wasn’t angry for himself. He was hurt for his mother and sister, which made it so much worse.

“I liked it better before I knew the truth,” Talia continued. “It was almost heroic that he left us for his dream, that he would not compromise what he believed in his heart. I respected that and somehow that made it all right. Easier.”

Lang coughed softly. “Maybe his daughter’s mother⁠—”

“Selah. Her name is Selah. That’s your stepmother’s name. Your half sister’s name is Jasmine,” she told him.

“As I was saying,” he began again, “apparently Selah didn’t mind being on the road with him, taking their daughter all over. He was playing a lot of clubs before he left—that’s probably how they met.”

“Are you making excuses for what he did?”

“How did you get that I’m making excuses for him from anything I just said?”

She was quiet, holding his gaze, and he stared right back. To anyone who didn’t know them, it would have looked bad, like they were both ready to explode and rain carnage upon one another, but in fact, a lot of their conversations worked this way, this silent communion between close siblings.

“Sorry,” she finally said.

“Me too,” he muttered, taking a breath.

“Tell me what you meant.”

“That having a home wasn’t a priority for him. He had to go on the road to fulfill his calling,” he reminded her.

“Yes. As musicians do.” She sounded not quite sad, but it was close.

“That’s right.”

“But Mom,” she said, picking up the thread, “and this house, our house—it’s her safe place.”