They stood on the porch while the afternoon light shifted across the driveway.
Marianne kept glancing toward the windows.
Audrey noticed.
“Are you worried someone will see us?”
“No.”
“Then stop looking at the house.”
Marianne folded her arms.
“I never thought you’d find me.”
Audrey stared.
“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said.”
Her mother swallowed.
“I wanted to explain.”
“When?”
“Audrey.”
“When were you planning to explain?”
Marianne looked down.
“I don’t know.”
“On my thirtieth birthday? When I got married? When Dad died?”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
Marianne began crying.
Audrey watched her.
She had imagined this moment for years, although in those fantasies her mother was dead and could only return through some impossible miracle.
She had imagined running into her arms.
Burying her face in her shoulder.
Feeling the old familiar warmth.
Now the woman stood three feet away, alive and crying.
Audrey felt no desire to touch her.
“Does Nathaniel know?” she asked.
Marianne went still.
Audrey nodded.
“Of course.”
“Audrey, please.”
“Does your husband know you had a daughter?”
Marianne hesitated.
“He knows I was married before.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her mother looked toward the street.
Audrey stepped closer.
“Does he know I exist?”
Silence.
Then Marianne shook her head.
“No.”
Audrey stared at her.
“You erased me.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I thought-”
“You told everyone I was dead too?”
Marianne’s face crumpled.
Audrey went cold.
“Oh, my God.”
Her mother covered her mouth.
Audrey stepped backwards
“You told him I was dead.”
Marianne began sobbing.
“I didn’t know how to explain.”
Audrey laughed.
A sound sharp enough to hurt her throat.
“You gave me a grave, and you gave yourself a dead daughter.”
Marianne shook her head.
“No, Audrey.”
“Then what did you tell him?”
Her mother didn’t answer.
Audrey stared.
For the first time, she understood that the lie had not ended when Marianne left Pennsylvania.
It travelled with her.
Across state lines.
Into a new marriage.
Into a house with blue shutters.
Into the lives of two children who called her Mom.
And perhaps into every story she had ever told about the life she abandoned.
A car turned into the driveway.
Marianne looked over Audrey’s shoulder.
Her expression changed immediately.
A dark SUV pulled beside the garage.
A man stepped out carrying a briefcase and a paper grocery bag.
Nathaniel Halstead.
He was tall, broad through the shoulders, with sandy hair and a friendly, weathered face.
He looked toward the porch.
Then smiled.
“Hey, honey.”
Marianne didn’t answer.
Nathaniel slowed.
He looked at Audrey.
“Everything okay?”
Audrey turned.
Marianne stepped forward.
“Nate, this is-”
She stopped.
Audrey waited.
Her mother looked at her.
For one brief, terrible moment, Audrey thought Marianne might call her an old friend again.
Instead, she whispered, “This is Audrey.”
Nathaniel looked confused.
“Audrey?”
Marianne’s hands began trembling.
“She’s my daughter.”
The grocery bag slipped slightly in Nathaniel’s grip.
He stared at her.
Then at Audrey.
“I’m sorry?”
Marianne began crying.