You can hope all you want, I thought but didn’t say. See, I am capable of editing myself for content every once in a while. “He’s going to stay with me for the time being. You and Dad didn’t exactly make him feel welcome when you were in such a rush to have him host again.”

My mother’s spine lost a little of its starch, and she looked away. Of course, the push to have Andy host again wasn’t the reason he was staying with me, but if I could shovel a heap of guilt onto her shoulders, I was more than happy to do so.

“We made a mistake,” she admitted. That might have been a first. “We were so excited to have him back—”

“So excited to have him back you tried to get rid of him immediately?” I interrupted, my voice going up an octave or two.

She sat up even straighter. I wouldn’t have thought that was possible. “We just wanted things to go back to normal. And I guess we didn’t want to know that he’d been unhappy to host a Higher Power. It was what he’d always wanted, and we’d always wanted for him. We thought he was living his dream…”

“Your dream, you mean.” My dad wasn’t attractive or well-built enough to meet the Society’s standards for a demon host, and when my mom had been young enough to volunteer, the Society had still been too sexist to consider women worthy hosts. Three cheers for progress!

Mom winced at the accusation, but didn’t contradict me.

It occurred to me that I knew where I’d inherited my talent for denial. The epiphany tasted sour in my mouth, and I made what I felt sure was an ugly face. “Remind me not to nominate you for Mother of the Year.”

Her cheeks reddened—whether from anger, or guilt, or a combination of the two, I couldn’t tell. “If the only reason you’ve come is to talk about my inadequacies as a mother, then I have nothing more to say to you.”

If I were there to talk about her inadequacies, she’d die of old age before I was finished, but I refrained from voicing that opinion. “I’m here to ask you about my real father.”

She jumped like she’d just stuck her finger in an outlet, and even through her perfect makeup, I could see the color drain from her face. “What are you talking about?” she gasped.

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. It’s written all over your face.”

Her face went from white to red, but, not surprisingly, she continued to stonewall. “Believe what you want, but you’ve known your real father from the day you were born.”

Usually, my mom isn’t much of a liar, which is why she’s so bad at it. She sounded more confident now, but I caught on to the lie she was telling herself. “All right, then. Tell me about my biological father.”

Realizing her tactics weren’t working, she went for slamming the metaphorical door in my face. “I think it’s time you leave.”

I sat back on the couch and crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t think so. I think you owe me an explanation.”

Her gaze frosted over. “I don’t owe you anything! Certainly I have no reason to feed this ridiculous fantasy of yours.”

Maybe if I shoved some more information in her face, she’d realize how pointless it was to deny the truth. “Twenty-eight years ago, you filed a rape report with the police. You never pursued it, and as far as I can tell the case died before it took its first breath, but you did a paternity test on me. And Dad is not my biological father.” He wasn’t much of a real father, either, but that was beside the point.

Her eyes glistened like she was on the verge of tears, and lines of strain were etched into her face. I almost felt sorry for her, though I carried too much anger to let the pity take charge.

“Why did you never tell me?” I asked, and was pleasantly surprised when my voice sounded gentle, rather than accusatory.

She sighed and shook her head. “What good would it have done? It was better for all of us if we just…pretended it never happened.”

Yes, pretending was one of my mom’s greatest skills. “Do you think it was better for the other women he might have raped after you?” I couldn’t keep the sharp edge out of my voice, though intellectually, I knew how hard a rape charge can be for the victim, especially that long ago.

My mom’s lips pressed together in a thin, hard line. “We…I did what was best for my own family. I don’t expect you to agree. It’s not like you understand the meaning of the word ‘caution.’”

“But you did file a charge, at least initially.”

“I didn’t have a choice at the time. The police found me after…” Her hands fisted in her lap, perfect nails digging into her palms.

I forced myself to gentle my voice. “Tell me what happened.”

I didn’t really expect her to answer, so I was startled when she started talking.

“I used to do volunteer work at The Healing Circle when Andrew was young. One evening when I was leaving, a man dressed in scrubs accosted me in the parking deck. He forced me at gunpoint to drive him out into the suburbs. Then he…” She swallowed hard and wrung her hands. “He left me tied up in the backseat when he was finished, and that was how the police eventually found me. The Healing Circle said they’d had a John Doe they’d been examining in the psych ward, and that was probably the man who attacked me. But they never found him, never figured out who he was.”

Yeah, and apparently Mom never made a peep after that initial report. I had a strong suspicion she knew more about this John Doe than she was telling. But there was another question I burned to ask first.

“Why on earth did you and Dad keep me under the circumstances? It’s not like you ever loved me.”

Damn it, I hadn’t meant to say that. The last thing I wanted was to admit to my parents that they had the power to hurt me. But perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing after all, because my mom’s face softened, and some of the angry tension faded from her posture.

“Of course we love you. I love you. You’re my daughter, and no amount of fighting will change that.” She offered me a smile, but I didn’t smile back.

“Tell me why you kept me,” I insisted, glomming on to the question that troubled me the most. “Even if you do love me in your own way, you have to sort of hate me, too. I’m a constant reminder of what happened to you. How could you look at me every day after that?”

I could see the denial on her lips. But she must have seen how pointless it was, because she gave up the fight. “It wasn’t always easy,” she admitted. “But I’m your mother, and that’s what mothers do. They love their children unconditionally.”

“You could have put me up for adoption. It seems like the sensible thing to do. Why did you keep me?” I hoped that the third time I asked would be the charm, but I should have known better.

“I’m just not the kind of mother who can give up her child. What my attacker did to me isn’t your fault, and neither I nor your father—your real father, the one who raised you—has ever held it against you.”

That was bullshit, but I’d never get her to admit it, so I let it drop. “Tell me the truth this time. Who was my father? Because I don’t believe for a second that you don’t know.”

And with that, it seemed that our special mother/daughter chat had come to an end. “I’ve said as much as I’m going to say. Your father and I kept you for your own good, and that’s all you need to know.”

“Like hell it is!”

The softness that I’d seen was completely gone now. “Well it’s all I’m going to tell you.”

I looked daggers at her. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what else you know about my biological father.”

She raised one shoulder in a dainty shrug. “Fine, then. Make yourself comfortable.”

And then she got up and left the room as if I weren’t even there.