Did she tell me?

"It's all a bit complicated," she said in way of explanation.
How complicated can it be? It was a 'yes' or 'no' question.
Unless, of course . . .
"He's married, isn't he?" I asked, already dreading the answer before the sickening taste of the words had even settled in my mouth.
How stupid was I not to see it sooner? After all, this is my daughter we're talking about. The one who seems to harbor a certain genetic predsposition to screwing up her life with hopeless, albeit raucous, sexual encounters.
Like mother, like daughter.
"Actually, he's separated." She shrugged and flipped her hair. "But I already told you that."
"No, actually, you didn't."
Such a detail as this would not have slipped beneath my maternal radar.
In fact, I assured her, "If you had bothered to mention that the father of your baby is married, I certainly would not have forgotten." And she certainly would not have forgotten the sound of my screeching mother voice raised in violent agony.