for me to keep the baby. We’d had several conversations about what kind of strollers we’d buy when we became mothers one day. Dympna wanted something modern and snazzy, while I mused about owning a Silver Cross pram. But it was her dream to have kids sooner rather than later, not mine; her relationship with Seamus had gone from strength to strength in the last six months. The last thing I wanted was to put some poor unfortunate baby through a childhood like mine.
‘I’m not getting an abortion,’ I said, clearing my throat. That much I was adamant about. I had nothing against women who chose that path, but I had sat through too many ‘burn in hell’ Sunday sermons to consider it an option for me.
Dympna nodded knowingly. Father Vincent had put the fear of God in her, too. It was a spittle-laced subject the Catholic priest was terrifyingly passionate about.
‘So you’re keeping it?’ Her face brightened. ‘We could rear it together. Like in the film. Three Men and a Baby. It would be great craic!’ Dympna was proud of her vintage video cassette collection and insisted we watch one old movie a week on her battered VCR.
‘Except we’re girls, we’ve no money and we both have to work.’ I shook my head. ‘Not that I have great job prospects now.’ There was a last resort: tell my mother. I didn’t need to factor my father in – he ran out on us years ago.
‘Are you going home then?’ Dympna slid her tongue over her teeth, and I knew she was doing the maths. If I left her high and dry, she wouldn’t be able to afford to stay in our flat on her own.
‘No way,’ I said, pulling a face. ‘You can’t tell Mammy either. She’s not to know.’
‘But . . .’
‘I mean it. Swear on your life.’
Dympna crossed her heart with her finger. It was something we’d done since childhood and we had never broken our vows. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me to fess up about the baby’s father. She would never speak to me again if she knew.
‘There’s one more option.’ Flicking back my hair, I reached for my battered laptop and opened it up. I brought up the ‘Miracle-Moms’ site I’d bookmarked earlier in the week. Guilt consumed me as I recalled how I’d spent my last €500 on registration costs instead of rent. But the fees ensured the site’s exclusivity; otherwise all sorts of people would be trying to fob their babies off. Surely it would be worth it if it helped me out of this mess? At first, it had seemed crazy. The very thought of giving up my firstborn made me turn cold. But what choice did I have? My priorities lay firmly with the cluster of cells growing inside me. More than anything, they deserved a decent start in life. I’m not saying that money buys you happiness, but it certainly would have improved my upbringing no end. No child should have to go to bed cold and hungry, or listen to their mother cry herself to sleep at night. Besides, Mam had finally met someone nice. She was settled now, with her own life to lead.
‘What do you think?’ I said, watching Dympna for a reaction as I scrolled through the page.
‘An adoption site? In America?’ She peered at the screen, her red curls shadowing her face. ‘Hang on . . . they buy your baby?’ She pushed my hand aside and clicked on a page. ‘Will you look at all these bumps – it’s like Tinder for pregnancies.’
‘Not buy,’ I said sharply, for fear of being talked out of it. ‘The couple pay my expenses. If we like each other, they fly me over and put me up until the baby is born.’
‘Then pay you a wad of money when you leave the baby there,’ Dympna snorted. ‘Have you checked them out?’
‘The site vets all the couples, so I don’t need to worry on that front.’
They vetted participants too. The pinprick on the crease of my inner arm was the result of the private blood test I’d had to take. It not only confirmed my pregnancy, but the potential sex of the baby. Not that I’d wanted to know; it wasn’t mine to keep, after all. I straightened my legs, which were fizzing with pins and needles. My size-ten jeans felt tight around my midriff, which was stupid as I was only eight weeks pregnant and hadn’t gained