“So, I have something to tell you.”
“Really? What is it?”
Please don’t say you’re pregnant again. Please don’t say you’re pregnant again. Please don’t say you’re pregnant again.
“I’m pregnant again!”
Of course you are. You lazy, irresponsible, silly girl. You can sit next to a man on the subway and get pregnant.
“Thanks. I know it’s probably not the best time…”
Ha! That’s an understatement. How old is your youngest? Six months? Your husband can’t keep a job to save his life. All six of you in a tiny apartment. And yet, how long have I been trying now? 18 months? Two years, maybe? And nothing to show for it but an exorbitant bill from a fertility specialist, two miscarriages and a drawer full of negative tests. You’ve been blessed four times and treat it like a trip to the convenience store. I hate you.
“An unexpected blessing.”
“I’m sure your turn will be soon. I always tell you – you just need to relax. It will happen.”
Relax?! Relax?! How can I do that with you getting knocked up every year like clockwork? Everyone complimenting you on your ripening belly while I sit next to you like an old dried up prune? People staring at me with pity in their eyes. Me smiling like everything is okay. Which it isn’t! Because you’re pregnant again. You, who couldn’t even afford a crib for your last baby! And you tell me to relax? Screw you!
“I’m sure it will.”
She reaches over and clutches my hand.
“Thank you for your support. It means a lot.”
You disgust me.
“Of course. You’re my best friend!”