Seventeen. In that neighborhood, I was practically an old maid. But any victory I’d ever felt for waiting was gone; and all that remained were unanswered questions and my mother’s refusal to meet my eye.
They were topics she had not shied away from. Girls we knew—friends of the family and some in the neighborhood—already had babies. She knew I was taking more time getting dressed, spending less time with my friends, and staying out late most nights—so my having sex could hardly have been a surprise. Still, a line had been crossed. There was reality, and there was innuendo. And the saying of it outright took something from us.
Sex. Pregnancy. Men.
What were they to her?
Failure? Freedom? Power?
Paths she followed, but did not prescribe. At least not aloud.