my head as my heart sinks at the thought of ending this life. But despite how much part of me wants this child, I know I really need to consider everyone else. This child will not only affect my life, but so many others as well. I want to talk to Gabe about this, but I fear he’ll want me to get an abortion. I just don’t know if I could ever do that. But then what? Gabe and I will separate? And what happens to the girls?
And Weston. He should know. But what about his family? His children?
I bury my forehead in my hands, pulling at my hair. “I don’t know what to do.”
Dr. Fisher leans in and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I wish I had all the answers for you, Mirella. I really do.”
I look up at her, feeling completely shattered. “Me too.”
Nothing has changed at home. Everything is the same. I still cook dinner every night and put the girls to bed at around eight-thirty. They always beg me to stay up a little later. Please…
Gabe still wakes up at the same time every morning, still leaves the toilet seat up and occasional beard shavings in the sink. He still has cream cheese and jam on a whole wheat bagel and a protein shake for breakfast.
Claire still makes her bed and lines up her stuffed animals against her pillow in the same exact order. Her stuffed orange kitty Carrot sits on the left, her Madeline doll sits on the right, and Bitzy, her stuffed monkey, her favorite, sits in the middle, cozily sandwiched between his two friends.
Chloe still reads a good ten minutes before coming down for breakfast, and still brushes her teeth for exactly two minutes with her electric pink elephant timer toothbrush.
Everything is the same. Yet, everything has changed.
This secret of mine is destroying me, little by little. I’ve been dealing with it by keeping busy, obsessively cleaning the house — it’s spotless, not a single thing out of place. I’ve organized the girls’ toys, the entry hall closet, and the kitchen cupboards.
Our life is so peaceful, perfect…looking in from the outside. But inside, I’m a brutal mess. I want to tell Gabe. I want to tell Weston. I want to tell Gwen. I want to confide in someone and free myself from this heavy burden and truck-load of remorse. I know I should really tell Gabe, but I’m not ready to face his reaction. I know this is wrong, but I just don’t want to hurt him — although I know I already have. I don’t want to mess up what we have. What we’ve built together…it’s perfect. And this secret will smear our lives beyond recognition. Once he knows about the baby, nothing will ever be the same.
So I’ve been waiting. Waiting for God to intervene. I’m at about seven or eight weeks now. I don’t feel too different. My breasts feel tender, and I’m occasionally a little nauseous and extremely tired. I’m also so emotional — but that probably has a little something to do with my life being a complete and utter mess. I’ve had a miscarriage in the past, and two full-term births. The way I see it, the chances of losing this baby are about thirty-three percent — possibly even higher since I’m older now. No one needs to get hurt. I can quietly lose the baby and no one needs to know there ever was a baby.
I’ve been exhausted, going to bed early, just about thirty minutes or so after I tuck in the girls. I think I’ve been heading to bed partly because I don’t want to be awake, obsessing over all this, and partly because I want to avoid Gabe. We haven’t made love since I found out. I just don’t feel right being close to him when another man’s child is growing inside me.
He has certainly been trying though. He slides down the strap of my tank top and kisses my shoulder, slips his hand up my thigh, under the covers, kisses the back of my neck and asks me if I’m in the mood to fuck. And every single time, I make an excuse — too tired, too busy, not feeling well, the girls. Surprisingly, he’s been taking it all in stride, asking me once or twice if I’ve been feeling okay. I nod and turn away or scurry off, not able to face him. I hate doing this to him.