The Mothers by Brit Bennett Page B

or careful later. That’s your only choice, really. You got big things ahead of you. Don’t you give that up for nobody.”
    â€œBut it’s just kissing,” Nadia said.
    â€œDon’t let it be more than that,” her mother said. “Don’t end up like I did. That’s the only thing you could do that would break your daddy’s heart.”
    Her father was a Marine, stoic and tough with a chest so hardened with muscle that his hugs even hurt. She’d never thought herself capable of breaking anyone’s heart, let alone his. But her mother was seventeen when she’d gotten pregnant. She must’ve known from experience how that had hurt her own parents. And if getting pregnant was the most harmful thing Nadia could do, then how much pain had her unexpected arrival caused? How much had she ruined her mother’s life, if her mother told her that a baby was the worst thing that could happen to her?
    Nadia had told Luke the kissing story once and he’d laughed into his pillow.
    â€œIt’s not funny,” she said.
    â€œAw, come on,” he said. “That shit was so long ago. And how you think she hates you? You never even talk to her.”
    â€œI can tell by the way she looks at me.”
    â€œShe looks at everyone like that. That’s just how she looks.”
    He’d rolled over in bed, burying his face in her neck, but she twisted out of his arms, feeling under the covers for her panties. She never stayed long when she visited him. It was thrilling at first—fucking in a pastor’s house—but after, the thrill faded into panic and she imagined footsteps outside the door, keys jingling, cars pulling into the driveway. Luke’s mother dragging her naked out of the bed, shaking her wrist. Luke thought her paranoia was funny but she didn’t want to give his mother another reason to hate her. She had hoped someday that Luke might bring her home, not sneak her in his bedroom when his parents were gone, but invite her to dinner. He would introduce her as his girlfriend and his mother would drape an arm across her shoulders and guide her to the table.
    Her father turned the silver Chevy Malibu into the parking lot, cruising toward the church entrance. She felt her stomach thrum.
    â€œI could find another job,” she said. “If you just give me a little time—”
    â€œGo on,” her father said, unlocking the door. “You don’t want to be late.”
    She had never been in Upper Room during the week, and as soon as she pushed open the heavy double doors, she felt like she was trespassing. The church, crowded and bustling on Sunday morning, wasnow wrapped in quiet, the halls darkened, the main foyer, with its sprawling blue carpet, empty. She felt almost disappointed by how plain the unoccupied building seemed, like how once at Disneyland, Space Mountain had stopped mid-ride and the lights flashed on, revealing that she was only in a gray warehouse, riding along a track with tiny drops that had only seemed exciting in the haze of special effects. She followed a dark corridor toward the back of the building, past the Sunday School room where she had reported, dutifully, from kindergarten to the eighth grade, past the choir room and the pastor’s office, down to the first lady’s office at the end of the hall. The room spread regally in front of her, mahogany furniture gleaming under the sunlight, tiny potted palm trees sprouting out of every corner. Mrs. Sheppard leaned against the desk, her arms folded. She was tall—at least six feet—and in her red skirt suit and matching high heels, she towered over Nadia.
    â€œWell, come on in,” she said. “Don’t just stand there.”
    She had always seemed intimidating, if not because of her height or her title or the way she walked slowly as she talked, like a panther stalking its prey, then because of her odd eyes. One brown and one blue, the