Working Girl by A. E. Woodward Page A

had.
    “But then when my daddy died when I was eight, my momma found a new boyfriend. She was crazy about him. So much so, she figured she might as well allow him to visit me at night.”
    My heart drops to the bottom of my stomach. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I struggle to breathe thinking about Momma as a child, being visited late at night.
    “I was so scared that first time. But every time after that got a little easier. The longer it went on the better I got at it. By the time I was twelve I prided myself on my ability to make Momma’s boyfriend squirm and moan. It made me feel like an adult, and it didn’t take me long to figure out that teenage boys loved it just as much as men.”
    “Oh, Momma,” I groan into her shoulder.
    “As I got older, I developed a reputation. I didn’t understand what the issue was. But when I was a senior in high school, I realized that there wasn’t a guy in my class that I hadn’t touched in some way and suddenly I didn’t feel any emotions anymore. No remorse. No pride. Just pure emptiness. I’d become a shell of a girl, and sex started to become the only time I felt alive.”
    I’d always hated my mother for this life, but listening to her story I realize that she didn’t choose this life.
    It chose her.
    “What about my father?” I ask, seizing upon her moment of honesty. I’ve asked in the past, but Momma has never talked about it. She always brushes it off, making me think that there is a possibility that she knows who he is. So now, with her letting me in, I want to know.
    “I’m not sure who your father is, Presley.”
    With her words, I deflate. In a weird way, I was hoping to at least know his name— even though there is no chance of me ever having any sort of real relationship with him.
    “Once I started working at the brothel, I never slept with anyone outside of my clients. I’ve never loved anyone, until you.”
    I’ve always assumed that my father was a Joe, but knowing without a doubt that I will never know for sure causes my heart to break a little more. A sob escapes my throat, and Momma grabs the sides of my face and makes me look at her.
    “Presley, I spent my whole life pushing love away. Being devoid of emotions is not a good thing, I realize that now. I never stood a chance after that first night with Momma’s boyfriend. But you do. I know you’re scared. You’re scared that you’re not going to escape. But I also know that you’re stronger than I was . . . than I am. So fight, Presley. Live. Let love in. Because the fact of the matter is, love isn’t the sort of thing that will push you into this life. My past is.”
    Her words are so perfect, so beautifully thought out, and just what I need. I wrap my arms tightly around her petite waist and squeeze. “I love you, Momma,” I choke out the words because the emotions and guilt I am feeling are overwhelming me.
    Everyone has a story. Everyone has a reason for living their life how they see fit. No one ever makes a choice to make others unhappy. My Momma is a perfect example. She’s doing the only thing she’s ever known. It doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t make it wrong. And to think that I’ve spent years hating her for bringing me into this life . . .
    “I’m so sorry.” With my face tucked into the side of her neck, I feel her nod. Nothing else needs to be said. We both know what I mean.
    She kisses me on the forehead, before letting me go and standing up. “I’m so proud of you, baby. And I love you more than anything in the world.”
    With my lips pressed into a hard line, I fight the tears threatening to escape from my eyes. This moment with Momma is transparent. She’s coming clean with me for a reason. She knows what’s coming, and it scares me. She forces a smile and turns to walk towards her room, closing the door and locking it behind her. Once I’m alone, I break down, allowing my emotions to overtake me.
    I cry for her. I cry for me. But mostly