Chapter 7 - The Interrogation of Aunt Teddy
Aunt Teddy did not send text messages; she sent registered letters with return receipts requested, or she simply showed up on your doorstep unannounced with a red pen and an unyielding sense of moral clarity. She lived in Charlottesville, had retired from teaching eighth-grade English after three decades of breaking down adolescent rebellion, and possessed an X-ray vision for bullshit that terrified my father.
On a freezing Friday morning in late November, the doorbell of my Church Hill home rang. I looked through the peephole expecting Zora or a delivery driver. Instead, I saw a tall woman with sharp silver hair, wearing an impeccably tailored trench coat, standing rigidly on my porch with a leather briefcase.
I opened the door cautiously. "Aunt Teddy?"
Teddy didn't smile, but her eyes softened just a fraction as she looked past me into the hallway. "Aren't you going to invite your blood inside, Imagin? Or are we going to reenact the Cold War on your welcome mat?"
I stepped aside, my heart pounding slightly. "How did you find out?"
"Diane tried to feed me a ridiculous story about you moving to Denver to pursue wilderness photography," Teddy said, walking into the living room and setting her briefcase down on the coffee table. She unbuttoned her coat with slow, deliberate precision. "Denver? Imagin, the only time you’ve ever left Virginia was for a weekend trip to Myrtle Beach in 2012. Furthermore, my friend at the Richmond Registrar of Deeds mentioned a birth certificate filed under Torrance. So, cut the crap and tell me why your mother is crying into her chamomile tea every night."
I stood frozen for a second, then walked over to the bassinet where Matilda was sleeping peacefully. I gently picked her up, cradling her against my chest, and walked back to where Aunt Teddy sat.
"Meet Matilda," I said softly.
Teddy stared at the baby, her stern face smoothing out as she stood up and walked closer. She didn't ask who the father was. She didn't quote scripture or mention suburban reputation. She simply reached out a manicured finger and let tiny Tilly wrap her impossibly small hand around it.
"She has your grandmother’s chin," Teddy whispered, her voice uncharacteristically thick. She looked up at me, her sharp eyes flashing. "Now. Tell me every single word of what your father and Diane did."
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For the next hour, I sat at my kitchen table and poured out everything—the dinner table cruelty, the deleted graduation picture, the denial of my labor, and the tuna casserole ultimatum. Teddy listened without interrupting once, taking mental notes the way she used to grade a student's final thesis.
When I finished, Teddy slammed her palm flat against the kitchen table—not in anger at me, but in cold, calculated fury. "Well," she said, adjusting her glasses. "It appears your parents have completely lost their minds. It’s time for an education. And nobody teaches an old dog quite like an old schoolteacher."
