“I know that’s what it feels like, but it’s not what it is,” Bette told her firmly. “You have to understand that what Tina needs and what she wants is for all of us to be happy, even you, she loves you more than anything… Absolutely anything… In this world – more than Carrie, more than me, she loves you… But she deserves to be in love with someone who she loves, you can’t begin to imagine what your mother has been through…”

“Then tell me.” Anger made way for defiance, and defiantly Angie looked into her other mother’s eyes. Hesitation settled in Bette’s stomach as she realized what she had said and how it could very well backfire in a way that she didn’t want. She found herself chewing on the inner corner of her lip.

“It’s not really my story to tell you, one day your mother will, when she’s ready…” Bette tried to say before Angelica stepped away from her and back to the arm of the sofa.

“Then don’t tell me her side, tell me your side.” Perched on the arm of the couch, Angie toyed with her hands on her lap and waited, watching as Bette blanched under the weight of the request.

Bette didn’t talk to her daughter about the times before they moved to New York. Angie didn’t really know about the on and off again nature of her and Tina’s relationship, about the miscarriage, about the cheating, or how many times Tina walked out the front door. They chose to move on, they didn’t look back, only at the good times with Alice, Dana, Shane, Helena, – their little family – and Kit. Kit would have known exactly what to do in this situation. She had all the words of wisdom that Bette did not. Yet, there she was, facing off against her daughter in their home, and the rush of the Mayoral campaign no longer proved to be a solid distraction. It was over. She’d lost. Over and over again.

“Angelica, it’s a lot…” Bette told her daughter as she shifted from the edge of her desk and rounded its edge to sit in her chair, reaching for a drawer and the bottle of bourbon stashed inside. She lifted it out, uncorked it, and poured herself a serving in her empty coffee mug from earlier that day. Angie watched her with those soulful eyes and waited with patience.

“So? Life is a lot, I feel like there are so many things that you and Mama T don’t talk about and I feel like that’s because of me, I remember one night I heard you fighting through the wall, in your bedroom,” Angelica admitted as her voice wavered and sounded more quiet. She continued to toy with her own fingers, something which staved off the anxiety. “I remember you saying ’Please, don’t do this again’ and I never really got that, I don’t remember a time when you and Mama T weren’t together.”

Bette brought her cup to her lips and drank slowly. She then brought it down to rest between her cupped hands on the wood grain surface. She leaned forward on her elbows and glanced at her daughter and then out the window to the sunny day beyond it. Keeping her thoughts on track, knowing that Angelica was steadily growing older, more confident, and less adolescent, Bette weighed the options in front of her. It pained her to no end knowing what Angelica had heard. She wished she hadn’t said it behind that closed bedroom door so that her daughter could hear her.

When the reasons not talk to Angie about it seemed to pale in comparison to the reasons to have this heart to heart, Bette turned her gaze back upon the young woman seated there opposite her. She let the breath she’d unknowingly been holding part her lips.

“Alright, I’ll tell you.”