I knew the name.
Clara worked at the Bellmere Community Arts Center. I had met her twice. She was twenty-seven years old, had Down syndrome, and was known for making brightly painted ceramic bowls and refusing to let anyone call cobalt blue “ordinary blue.”
My mother swallowed.
“Clara from the art center?”
“Yes.”
“The young woman with Down syndrome?”
Ethan’s face hardened.
“Her name is Clara.”
“I know her name,” my mother said quickly. “I’m only trying to understand.”
My father stood.
“How long have you been seeing her?”
“Almost a year.”
“A year?” I said. “You never told us.”
“We wanted privacy.”
My mother pressed a hand to her chest.
“Why are you marrying so quickly?”
Ethan looked toward the window.
That small hesitation frightened me.
Then he said, “Clara is six months pregnant.”
The room became completely still.
My mother’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
My father stared at Ethan.
“Is the baby yours?”
Ethan did not answer immediately.
I stepped closer.
“Ethan, is the baby yours?”
“No.”
My mother sat down heavily.
My father’s face turned red.
“You are marrying a woman who is carrying another man’s child?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Ethan’s voice remained calm.
“Because I want to.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only answer I’m giving tonight.”
My father slammed his newspaper onto the table.
“Marriage is not charity.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
My mother began crying quietly.
I watched my brother’s hands.
His right hand was curled into a fist.
He always did that when he was hiding something.
