Belabored Chapter 30: Tom and Emma

 “You cannot contract to sell a baby. If they legalize this contract they may soon start bringing poor women in from other countries just to be breeders... Nature’s laws have to supersede man’s law.”

 – Mary Beth Whitehead, on her groundbreaking surrogate mothering court case

              “So how’s work been going, Ted?” I ask my brother-in-law after filling my plate with a variety of unhealthy holiday goodies. We’re having a post-New Year’s celebration with Emma’s sister, Linda, and her husband, Ted. Em hasn’t been herself since we got the diagnosis about Matthew, and I thought being with her sister would cheer her up. She and Linda have been close since they were kids, and Ted’s not a bad guy, either.

              We have to celebrate a week late because both of our kids took it into their heads to contract the flu on the 31^st. So, instead of watching the ball drop on New Year’s Eve, we watched our younger guy, Kevin, spill his guts – literally – all over the living room rug. I told Em I would clean it up, but she likes to do everything a certain way. So instead, I “de-grossed” Kev in the tub while Em scrubbed the mess, her swollen belly sagging over the foul-smelling carpet. Tears stood in her eyes. She wouldn’t admit she was upset, but I know my wife.

                Ted, who works for a graphic design firm in the city, responds to my question about work.

               “The job's OK, I guess. Everything’s hectic, what with the downsizing and restructuring, but I’m just glad I didn’t lose my job with the layoffs last summer. It’s just a pain to have to put in ten to twelve hour days because they let so many people go and won’t fill any positions.”

I’m not one to complain, but I feel an odd responsibility to chime in with some negativity of my own. Misery loves company, I guess.

“I hear you, man. School’s the same way. They’re not laying people off yet, but they’re sure taking their pound of flesh with all this state testing and the department of education breathing down our necks about every little thing. We’re working day and night to prove the district’s making ‘adequate yearly progress.’ Meantime, the burden’s all on the teachers. The parents say, ‘Jump!’ and we have to say, ‘How high?’ It really sucks.”

              Lull. Once we hit our stride, Ted and I can converse for hours, but it always takes a bit of doing to find a topic of mutual interest.

“How’s Emma feeling?” he asks, then realizes we’re there to have fun and not discuss weighty subjects like bad prenatal diagnoses. “Oh, sorry, man, you probably don’t feel like talking about that tonight.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” I answer. “She’s doing OK. We’re both getting used to the whole thing. Gonna take some time. What about you guys? What’s the latest?”

He laughs in a humorless way.

“Ha! Now there’s a subject that should be off limits! I thought the adoption system was screwed up, but it’s running like clockwork compared to the foster care system. We had yet another glorious visit with Danny’s birth father, where he showed up half an hour late and threw a huge fit when the social worker told him he couldn’t see the baby. He knows the rules, but I guess they don’t apply to him.”

              Ted’s referring to the 18-month-old they’ve been fostering for the past six months. Danny is Ted’s sister’s son, and he’s had a rough start in life. His mom’s on drugs and the dad has been arrested I don’t know how many times for dealing. The guy’s clever, though, and the cops can never seem to make the charges stick.

              The sad part is Ted and Linda want to adopt the little guy, even though he’s a real handful. The poor kid clings to Linda like glue, doesn’t want to let her out of his sight. Screams bloody murder if she even leaves to go to the bathroom.

              They’ve spent gobs of money over the past four or five years trying to adopt, and it always blows up in their faces. Twice they got real close, only to have the door slammed shut in the end. That’s bad enough, but to add insult to injury, all the money they shelled out for fees and the birth mothers’ expenses goes up in smoke. It’s the only business I can think of where you know up front the whole thing’s a crap shoot. No refunds, no guarantees.

Ted seems to be waiting for a comment, but I’m not sure what to say. I just shake my head and roll my eyes in sympathy.

“But wait. It gets better. After he huffs and puffs and the social worker has to pretty much throw him out of the office, she turns to us and says, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Genovese, I don’t want you to get your hopes up. In spite of Mr. Sanders’ behavior, in all likelihood, he’ll be granted custody in the long run. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, after all you’re doing for little Danny, but I’ve been doing this job for a long time. That’s usually the way it works, unless he ends up in prison. The system really does try to reunite children with their biological families.’ Can you believe that?” 

“That is really criminal,” I say with disgust.

                                                            ***

              From across the room, my sister, Linda, hears Tom use the word “criminal,” and picks up on it.

“Emma, speaking of criminal, you mind if I run something past you?” she asks me.

“Go for it, Lin.”

 “OK. Well, you know Ted and I have really been robbed with this adoption business a couple of times now, right? Well, we’ve actually been considering going in another direction.”

This piques my interest. It might be nice to think about someone else’s parenting problems for a change. I go over and over the situation with our unborn Matthew constantly in my mind. Sometimes I can handle it, and I feel like it’s actually doable. Other times, I turn into a gelatinous mess of tears and terror. Let me focus on poor Linda’s issues tonight.

“Yeah, I can’t disagree with you there. You guys have really been through the wringer with the traditional route. I can’t blame you for looking for other options. By the way, Danny seemed to go down easier tonight than last time we were here. Is he coming along?”

“I hope so. Yeah, I think he is getting better in that area. He’s such a cuddle bug at times, but other times, he throws these wild tantrums and we don’t know how to calm him. It’s like he has two different personalities. Do your kids do that?”

I have to think about how to answer that. My boys are no different than most children; when they don’t get their way, they scream and fuss. What I’ve noticed about Danny, though, is he becomes almost hysterical and is pretty much inconsolable until he exhausts himself and falls asleep. In my heart of hearts, I think Linda may be in for much more than she bargained for if she takes in this child.

Fortunately, Linda continues before I have to think of a diplomatic reply to her question.

“Well, anyway, I was starting to tell you about our plans.” She hesitates, as if weighing whether or not I can handle the subject she’s about to introduce.

“The thing is, I don’t want to be insensitive. With all you’re going through, maybe this isn’t the time to –”

“No, of course it is, Lin. I want to hear it. Definitely.”

“Well, alright, if you’re sure. We’re prepared for the fact that we may not get Danny. Ted’s sister doesn’t want to be bothered with him, and she’s not clean anyway, so she’s not gonna put up a fight. But Danny’s father really wants custody of him, and he’ll probably win even though he’s a really bad apple. It’s a disgrace. But we’ve been through so much, it would be criminal to quit now. So… you’ve heard of artificial insemination, right? Actually, the term they use is ‘intrauterine insemination.’ Well, the doctor we’ve been talking to thinks that might be a good idea for us. He says it’s pretty affordable, and if that doesn’t work we can try in vitro – but that costs a boat load.”

This catches me off guard. The little I know about reproductive alternatives makes the whole business seem like an engineering project. “Concocting a pregnancy” is the phrase that springs to mind. Fortunately, it stays in my brain rather than exiting my mouth. How dare I, for whom pregnancy happens with almost as much regularity as sock changing, make that kind of judgment on my poor sister, who’s desperate to raise a child – anyone’s child.

She’s waiting for a response. I think fast and decide the safest place to go would be finances.

“So … how much are we talkin’? If you don’t mind my asking, I mean.”

“No, not at all, you're fine. In the neighborhood of 10 to 15 thousand. The place has a sliding scale. Our paper work’s not all in yet, but they’ll give us all the numbers when it is.”

I groan.

“Wow, that is a bundle. Do you guys have it?”

“We’re working on getting a loan. Those two failed adoptions set us back a lot. They don’t give refunds, you know,” she adds with disdain.

“So it sounds like you guys are pretty set on this.”

“Well, like I said, it’s our contingency plan if things don’t work out with Danny.”

I’m afraid to ask too many questions, so I just emit a non-committal “Hmmm.”

Linda pauses for a minute, then seems to make up her mind to tell me everything.

“Worst case, we hire a surrogate.”

After picking my jaw up from where it landed someone under my rib cage, I say, “You mean somebody else to carry your baby?”

“Yeah, basically. I mean, it would be ours, really. I mean, my egg and his, y’know. Just somebody else to sort of, incubate, in a way.”

A siren goes off in my head.

 “Wait, what about that case 20 or 30 years ago? What was it called? Baby X? Something like that. Where the birth mother sued to keep the baby ’cause she changed her mind. Remember that? Honey, you don’t need that kind of trouble.”

“Yeah, Em, I know what you’re talking about. ‘Baby M’ was the case. Trust me, we’re not going there. We read up on this stuff and talked to a lawyer. That happened ’cause it was actually her egg and she didn’t wanna give up her own baby, so the courts felt she had a case. What we’re considering is the surrogate would just be a carrier for Ted and me. The entire whole, um, embryo would be from us. See the difference? I don’t think we’d have a problem.”

Another news story is gnawing at me, but I’m having trouble bringing the details to mind. I remember reading about a couple who provided a frozen embryo for a surrogate to carry, but then wanted to back out when they learned the baby would have birth defects.* I start to look it up on my phone, but then I realize Linda wants a sounding board, not an opinion. Besides, this is getting into the realm of too much information, more than I feel I can handle. When she brought up the subject, I wanted to be a good sister and support her, but now her infertility issues are getting all mixed up with my concerns over my own situation. I don’t feel strong enough to weigh all the ethical implications of what she’s proposing while not yet having peace with my own moral dilemma.

I do what women do best. I change the subject.

“Hey, I could really go for a chick flick. You have Netflix, right?”

I pretend not to notice the hurt expression on her face, and snatch up the remote the way Kevin grabs for his pacifier. Tom calls it his personality. We really have to wean him off of that thing.

*The case Emma struggles to recall involved a Connecticut couple who insisted their surrogate have an abortion when ultrasound revealed severe birth defects. The surrogate mother moved to Michigan, where her rights as a surrogate trumped those of the biological parents. The child was subsequently adopted by an outside couple (http://www.cnn.com/2013/03/04/health/surrogacy-kelley-legal-battle/).

Belabored Chapter 28: David

“When grace is joined with wrinkles, it is adorable. There is an unspeakable dawn in 

happy old age.” – Victor  Hugo

              “Don’t worry, Hon, I’ll give her a healthy lunch!” I call to Bon. Jess and I wave goodbye while pulling out of the driveway.

              “See that you do!” she retorts with a smile. We both know it’s a promise I won’t keep, but we also know she’ll come home with a full belly and a full heart.

              “OK, little lady, no unstrapping yourself today,” I warn Jess while settling her into her car seat. I toss her “big girl bag” – which, unbeknownst to Jess, contains an extra pair of undies and even a few Pull-Ups©, just in case – onto the seat next to her. "We need to keep you all buckled in, safe and sound, so we can get to see Aunt Mary real fast.”

              As soon as the words are out, I know I’ve blown it. Jess figured out how to unbuckle her car seat awhile back, and I’m much better off if I pretend it never happened. Sure enough, I hear the telltale sound, followed by a mischievous giggle, seconds after the words leave my lips.

              Pulling over, I practice my serious face. Part of the problem, as Bon frequently reminds me, is that the kid knows I think her hijinks are hilarious. Oh, I always win in the end, but I can’t help laughing when she gives me those dimples and tries to look innocent. Bon says I’m “reinforcing unacceptable behavior,” but I’m only human. What guy could resist that angel face?

              “Alright, Jessica Rose,” I begin, using her full name as Bon does when she means business, “we are going to turn right around and go home if you’re gonna pull this stuff. Do you understand me?”

              “OK, Daddy!” she giggles, then attempts to refasten herself. Funny thing: she’s got the unbuckling down pat, but don’t ask her to redo the thing. Then she’s all thumbs.

              “Never mind, Baby. Daddy’ll get it. Your job is to leave it alone. Got it?”

              “Got it!” she squeals, then proceeds to undo it several more times before we take off. Each time, I try to assume the look Bonny gives her that always stops her dead in her tracks, but whatever it is, I clearly don’t have it. I finally have to do a 180 with the car and pretend we’re going back home.

              “No, Daddy, please, I’ll stop!” she begs.

              “No, it’s too late,” I tease, trying to maintain my poker face. “Guess Aunt Mary and Molly will just have to miss out this week. That piano will just have to stay silent and miss your little fingers playing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’ It’s so, so sad, but –”

              Her screams of heartbreak prove I have her where I need her. Not that I like to play that card, but I have to get this to go my way somehow. God knows, I can’t have the cops pull me over and find out I have an unstrapped toddler in the backseat. I could have her watching an X-rated movie on the iPad, no problem, but heaven forbid I bend a safety rule that the government in all its wisdom imposed on parents. What’s the law now, kids have to be in booster seats till they go to the prom, something like that?

              “Alright then. No more unbuckling, or home we go. Got it?”

              “Got it, Dad!” she chirps in that way she has.

              When we push open the glass door, the stench bowls us over as it always does. Jess asks her usual question.

              “Daddy, how come Aunt Mary’s house smells like diapers?”

              “I know, Jess, it’s kinda stinky. That’s because she lives in a nursing home, remember? Sometimes old people have to wear diapers, too.”

              “But why, Dad? Aren’t they potty trained? Maybe I could teach ’em.”

              I will myself not to laugh. Looking down at her questioning eyes and the solemn look on her face, I know that even cracking a smile would deflate her. As I gaze at her creamy, perfect skin, the contrasting image of Tanya’s acne-ridden face involuntarily enters my mind. Before I can catch myself, I grimace.

              “It’s not that, Sweetie. They do use the potty if they can. But some of them can’t always make it in time, and they have accidents like you did that time, remember? So it helps if they have a grownup diaper on.”

              I should’ve known that wouldn’t be the end of it. Lately, Jess has been taking more in, remembering conversations we had previously. It blows me away how her mind is expanding. The first thing she says when she hops onto my aunt’s lap is, “Aunt Mary, do you wear diapers?”

              I try to do damage control.

              “Jess, that’s not polite! We don’t ask Aunt Mary questions like that!”

              My aunt grew up during the Depression, so I guess she knows a thing or two about not taking life too seriously. A boisterous bellow escapes her lips, causing the crepe-y folds of her neck to jiggle like an accordion. That gives Jess permission to laugh, too, and the two of them sit there howling like idiots for a good 30 seconds.

              “Well, I’ll tell you a little secret, Honey Bunch,” my 80-something aunt begins, “I have been known to wear a Depend© when I go on a trip!”

              “Daddy, Aunt Mary wears Depends© when her goes on trips!” Jess blurts out. I make a mental note, once I stop cackling, to tell Bon when we get home. She’ll be relieved to know the rule we taught Jess about not keeping secrets from Mom and Dad has sunk in. Don’t waste your time with Jess Gullickson, child molesters. The news will be out before you can say “registered sex offender.”

              “Aunt Mary, what are Depends©?” 

              This produces more snorts and snickers from the wheelchair, and I give up hope then and there of having any sort of adult conversation.

              The thing I love best about Aunt Mary is her outlook on life. She doesn’t waste time wondering why senseless things happen; she just absorbs them, comes to a place of acceptance, and shares whatever perspective she’s gained with those who are still struggling. For instance, when my brother, Lenny, died way too young, she called to console me. By that time, Al was gone too, as well as my mother. That left only my brother, Jack, and me to represent our family. Aunt Mary must’ve known how unfair it all felt to me. She didn’t say much except she was sorry and she loved me, but at the end of the call, she made herself available in no uncertain terms.

              “Davey,” she said, “You have my phone number. Use it. I’m always here for you. Sometimes you just need to talk to somebody with white hair.”

              I’ve never forgotten those four sentences. I guess that’s why, when she broke a hip and had to move to this God-forsaken place, I made it a point to come visit her regularly. It’s good for Jess and for me. Somehow I feel closer to my parents when I look into that beautiful, wrinkled face.

              “Aunt Mary,” Jess says with excitement, “wanna see what’s in my big girl bag?”

              “I sure do, Honey Bunch. You got any secrets in there?”

              “No, no secrets,” Jess replies solemnly. “We don’t keep secrets, right, Daddy?”!

              “That’s right, little lady!” I affirm, then remember the aforementioned items Bon snuck into the bag right before we left. They’ll do more than give lie to what I just said; they’ll hurt Jess’s “big girl” pride.

              “Hey, Jess, can I see what’s in your bag first?” I say, knowing it’s a dumb ruse and probably won’t work anyway. But it’s all I can think of on the fly.

              To my surprise, she agrees and hands it over. When I peer inside, I see the soft toy that’s lived on Tanya’s bed ever since I moved in. It’s a floppy yellow thing that seems to mean almost as much to her as Ralph did. I think Bon said she’s had it since she was a little kid.

              “Hey, Jess,” I begin, “what are you doing with Fluffy? Does Tanya know you have this?”

              “No, Daddy, it’s Puffy!” Jess counters.        

              “Oh, OK, I stand corrected. Does she know you have Puffy? Your sister will be pretty upset when she sees it’s missing.”

              “No, Daddy, her gave it to me.”

              “Now, Jess, what did Mommy and I tell you about making up stories? That’s called ‘lying,’ and Jesus doesn’t want you to do that.”

              “No, Daddy, her did give it to me. ’Member when I cutted my finger? Tonna gave it to me so me would stop crying. Puffy’s mine!”

              With that, she snatches up the item in question and proceeds to brag on all its wonderful features to my long-suffering aunt.

              At this point, Aunt Mary’s friend, Molly (they refer to themselves as fellow inmates), pulls her wheelchair (they call them their chariots) alongside Aunt Mary’s in the solarium. I decide to table the Puffy discussion, and make a mental note to discuss it with Tanya when we get home.

              “Well, how’s my little punkin’ today?” Molly asks my daughter.

              Jess isn’t crazy about Molly, she tells me, because the 300-pound woman has long, wiry whiskers sprouting out from her double chin. Still, I’ve taught her to be polite, so she answers earnestly, “I’m fine, Molly, and so is Daddy.”

              “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Punkin’, and would you like to play a song today? Would you like to learn a song about a star?”

              That’s the one thing Molly has going for her in Jess’s eyes: she taught piano for years, and gives my daughter an addled coaching session every week. I’m not sure who’s more to blame for the ramshackle-ness of the lesson – Jess with her wiggles and giggles, or Molly repeating the same thing 400 times. Each week she re-teaches her “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” and each week Jess reminds her that she’s already learned it. Molly apologizes, then starts all over again with the same song. The memory section of Molly’s brain is caught in a spin cycle that the neurons simply can’t overcome.

              Jess has a kiddie keyboard at home, and she dutifully fools around on it after the lesson. I’m no help, having the musical aptitude of a turnip, but I always tell her she’s wonderful and that Molly will be proud next time we see her.

              As usual, Aunt Mary smiles and squeezes my hand as we watch Jess pound the ivories. That old upright has definitely seen better days, but it serves the purpose for the hymn sings St. Philomena’s sponsors at the home every third Sunday. The way Jess talks about it, you’d think it was a baby grand; I guess, compared to her mini-Casio©, it is.

              When Aunt Mary starts to nod off, I know it’s time to go. I scoop up Jess, cue her to say goodbye, and cart her off towards the exit with my usual promise of chicken nuggets and fries. In minutes, we find ourselves out in the sunshine, away from repetitive piano lessons and the pungent but well-earned smells of humanity.

Belabored Chapter 26: Tanya

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” – C.S. Lewis

            Life stinks.

            That’s my considered opinion, after 18 years on this dreary, nonsensical, unfair planet.

            Mom and David are gonna put Ralph to sleep. He’s my dog. I love the way he curls up with me in bed. He even lets me cradle him like a baby, which i­­­s no small undertaking – he’s a big, awkward amalgamation of fat and fur. I don’t even mind when he grabs my spot when I get up for a drink or to pee. He looks at me with those devilish brown eyes and moves over when I tell him to. He understands everything I say to him. More to the point, he understands me.

            He loves to wait for me at the front door. We have a glass paneled storm door that Ralph loves to look out of, like a sentinel or something. One time we forgot to lock it and Jess ran out when no one was looking. Ralph somehow knew she wasn’t safe and howled his head off to warn us. I can always hear him barking in that low, moany voice of his when I pull up in the driveway. Then he gets all excited and wags his tail when he sees me coming up the walk.

Ralph’s pretty much my best friend. The thing I love most about him is when he’s lying down on the rug and I’ll say to him, “You OK, Buddy? Are you good, Ralphie?” and then he’ll wag his tail at high velocity like a windshield wiper. Doesn’t matter how many times I ask him; he never gets tired of playing the game.

And, oh, how that dog can eat! Doesn’t matter what or when. We actually have to keep the kitchen trash can off limits in the cellar way so he can’t get into it. Once Mom got an emergency phone call and had to leave in a hurry. She had the trash can out in the open because she was tossing scraps into it as she was cooking. When she came home, he had knocked over the whole thing and strewn chicken bones, potato skins, and other disgusting debris all over the downstairs. We had to call the emergency vet because we were afraid he might have eaten some of the bones. Let me tell you, it wasn’t a pretty sight solving that problem. Let’s just say the back yard got well fertilized after that disaster, and guess who got elected to clean up the mess. I complained a lot, but to tell you the truth, I love him so much, I would do that and a lot more for him if I had to.

To top everything off, I found out a Christian singer I used to be really into is going through all kinds of divorce drama. His wife’s claiming he has a porn addiction and cheated on her. He doesn’t seem to want to go quietly into the night, and is firing back with all kinds of allegations of his own.

Somehow, with everything that’s going on with Ralph and my body, I decide to take it out on Mom about the singer, Charlie Granger. I know it’s crazy. I should be trying to find out for sure whether or not I’m pregnant, but I keep thinking it can’t be possible. If I go get it confirmed, I’ll have to figure out what to do, and I can barely hold it together as it is.

When I tell Mom about Granger's messy, so-called Christian life, she looks positively stricken. I know it’s mean, but I can’t help snarking at her, “So, what do you think of your God now? His followers sure do a great job of following Him, huh? Oh, and by the way, I haven’t heard from Pastor Kaplan – or anyone else at that church, either, for that matter – since that ‘intervention’ you staged, so please don’t do that again.”

When I turn to walk away, she stops me in my tracks.

“Tanya Elizabeth!” she calls after me. When she starts out that way, I know I’ve crossed the line.

“What?” I growl. I know I’m being really snotty with her lately, but somehow it makes me feel less horrible about Ralph when I bark at someone else. 

Her tone changes. Instead of laying into me, which I deserve, she sort of appeals to me.

“Tanya, Honey, I know you’re hurting about Ralphie. We all are. Believe me, it’s the last thing your fa – I mean, Dave and I want to do. I can see you’re miserable.

“Honey, I’ve been where you are. But, Sweetie, God is only a whisper away. And yes, Christians do disappoint us. Regularly. I’d say, over the course of my lifetime, I’ve been more disappointed than not in the church and the people in it. But I learned a long time ago, I’m not following flesh and blood. I’m following the opposite of those things. If I put my faith in Charlie Granger or [here she inserts the names of other well-known church people], I’d have quit the church a long time ago.

“David coined a phrase which I’ll never forget when we were car shopping,” she continues over the objections I’m starting to raise. “Please, Sweetheart, let me finish. Then I promise to listen to you. Deal?”

“Fine,” I mutter, assuming the most exasperated expression I can manage, and wondering why she called me “Sweetheart” when I’m being so rough on her and her God.

“Thanks, Honey. Anyway, you remember recently when we were trying to find a minivan? Well, I guess Dave’s a better judge of character than I am, or maybe he’s just bought more used cars than I have. Anyway, I was really liking the salesman, and he was giving us a really smooth sales pitch. When he left us alone for a few minutes, I was sort of singing his praises to David. You know what he said to me? ‘Bonny, I can’t afford to fall in love with the salesman.’

“And guess what? He was spot on. We looked at Carfax, and it turned out we’d have been the third owner, the report was full of alerts – the car was a lemon!

“Dave was right. Just because you like someone’s message, or the way he’s delivering it, that doesn’t get you off the hook from doing your homework. You’ve gotta look at the facts, and check out the product itself, not the guy who’s pitching it.

“The thing is, Christians are people, and people are made of dirt – you remember God created the first people from the dust of the earth, right? – which  is why their actions are often so dirty. Let’s face it, so are ours. You of all people know about some of the mistakes I’ve made. But those same mistakes have turned out –” her voice catches in her throat, “well, they’ve turned out to also become my greatest gifts. They humbled me, and somehow God turned around what could have been an awful mess and made it into a glorious girl named Tanya Elizabeth Ritter.”

I grab the opening she’s just given me.

“Oh, so I’m a mess? Thanks a lot! I suppose –”

She surprises me by coming right back at me, but not in a Mom-ish way, just firm and commanding.

“No, Tanya, that’s not what I meant, and you know it. You’re the furthest thing from a mess. You have a lot of growing still to do – we all do – but there’s no doubt in my mind that God has great things in store for you. David and I both believe that. Can’t you see how much we love you? You’ve always made us so proud. And you always will.”

Something in me breaks. I start to bawl like a baby. I don’t know why. I let her put her arms around me, and even put mine around her.

I wish I could tell her I might be pregnant. But how can I disappoint her when she just said I’m the greatest thing since the microwave? To be treating her so rotten, then have her tell me how special I am, then spring this news on her?

I can’t bring myself to do it.