My parents threw me out at nineteen because I wouldn’t end my pregnancy. Ten years later I drove back with my son and knocked on the same door and I finally told them who his father was.

PART 1

I was nineteen and about three weeks gone when I finally told them.

We were in the living room. Wednesday evening. The television was on with the sound off, which is how it always was in that house.

I had the test in my hands and my hands were going.

My mother stared at it. My father leaned forward in his chair and his face went cold in stages, the way it does on a man who is deciding something.

He said: who’s the father?

I swallowed and said: I can’t tell you.

Nobody said anything for a while. I counted the radiator.

Then my mother said: what do you mean you can’t tell us?

She said: are you covering for somebody? Is he married? Is he twice your age?

I said: it’s complicated.

I said: but I can’t end this pregnancy. I can’t.

And then I said