Never Say Never by Victoria Christopher Murray

sweetheart, because you have to be strong. For the children. They need you, and they’re lucky, because you’re one of the best.”
    â€œThanks for saying that, Mom. Anyway, how are you?”
    â€œWe’re doing well here. You know, I’m still very involved with DAR,” my mother said.
    That made me smile. My mother had been one of the key women in the Mississippi chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution since I could remember. When I was a little girl, I loved to go with her to the auxiliary meetings. She didn’t let me go often, but I lived for the afternoons when I could be with all of those women, wearing their Sunday best, sitting around drinking tea and eating crumpets and tea cakes. It felt so grown-up to me. I always thought I was going to be just like those women, with their demure ways and Southern sensibilities.
    But I was so wrong. Maybe it was because I was too much of a tomboy. Or maybe it was because I’d soon grown to be so tall. Or maybe it was because once I was a teenager, I didn’t care much about the ways of the women who were lineal bloodline descendants of someone who fought in the American Revolution. I cared more about the present than I did the past.
    â€œThis year,” my mother continued, “I’m working with the scholarship committee and the literacy outreach program that we just started.”
    â€œThat sounds so good, Mom. I wish I were there—we could work on that together.”
    There was a moment of silence as both of us reflected on my words. We both knew that I wouldn’t be there with her. Probably never again.
    After a moment, I asked the question that I knew would make both of our hearts break. “How’s Dad?” My question wasn’t perfunctory. I truly wanted to know.
    â€œHe’s playing golf,” she said, as if I’d asked an ordinary question about an ordinary father.
    â€œMom . . . do you think . . . if I called him—”
    She didn’t even let me finish, and I could almost see my mother, sitting in the Victorian-decorated parlor (they never called it a living room) of the six-thousand-square-foot home that I’d grown up in, shaking her head.
    My mother answered my question with her own. “Are you still with Jamal?”
    â€œMom, you say that as if we’re just dating. We’re married.”
    â€œThat is exactly why your father won’t speak to you,” she said in a tone that sounded like she was scolding me.
    â€œYou don’t approve of my marriage and you speak to me. Even when you know Dad’s going to be mad if he finds out, you still do it. Why can’t he love me the way you do?” I cried.
    My mother sighed. “It’s different for me,” she said. “Your father’s heart is truly broken. He doesn’t understand it and in a way, he blames himself.”
    â€œThis is so ridiculous. He’s blaming himself like I went out and became a stripper or something.”
    â€œAnd that may have been easier for him to accept!”
    Why did I keep doing this to myself? Every time I called, I went there. And every time I went there, I got my feelings hurt.
    â€œEmily,” my mother said, her voice much softer this time. “Your father will never accept your marriage. If you want him to forgive you, you know what you have to do. Until then—”
    â€œI’m not forgiven and I’m disowned,” I said, finishing for her. “Can you at least tell him that I called, and that I asked about him?”
    â€œI’ll see. I don’t like getting your father upset.”
    That meant my mother would never say a word. It was the way she was raised—she was old-school Southern. She lived to please her husband. That was her job and she’d done it well. Growing up, I never once saw my parents disagree in any way about anything. Because my mother always went along.
    That’s what she