“I am excited, but I’m also very nervous. Aren’t you nervous? Babies are so much work.”
“Don’t worry, baby.” He sits back upright and pats my hand. “You can handle it.”
Deep down, I think I know he means something more like ‘you’ll be a great mother’ but it really feels like ‘you can do all the work so why would I be nervous’. I suppress a giggle at the thought — maybe it’s the nerves, maybe it’s the absurdity of thinking about doing this alone, but I can’t help it.
I grab my fork and resume eating, maybe stabbing my chicken a little too fiercely. I consider my options, only partially aware that beside me Matt is still blithering on about our future and when I should move in. I can suck it up, find a reason to be happy, count my blessings, and make this work with Matt. I can stand up, throw him out of my place, and raise this baby alone.
I refuse to consider options that do not contain this baby. Like it or not, this baby and I are in this together. I am suddenly terrified of being this baby’s only life-line. This baby and I, we need another anchor. I smile at Matt and bring myself to listen to his end of the conversation. I even nod when it’s appropriate because, really, what other choice do I have?
A small, rogue thought pops into my head: I wonder what Ben would do if he knew. I push it down immediately. Not the time. Not the place. But it makes me grin despite myself—tiny, hidden Liz, still lurking somewhere under the surface.
Chapter 41
Liz, February 19
Have I mentioned I hate cleaning? Typical cleaning, like running a vacuum or doing laundry, those are no big deal. But moving the couch and scrubbing cabinets you never use, I hate that. That’s what I’m doing today. Matt and I have decided my house, with its two bedrooms, isn’t large enough for all of us. So I’m cleaning the entire place from top to bottom in order to make it ready to sell. I’m also packing all my stuff to bring it over to Matt’s three-bedroom place.
Part of me is completely annoyed at the idea that someone else’s belongings are going to occupy the same space as mine. Of course I know that is ridiculous. This is someone who I am dating seriously and I should be glad he’s taking this step. Still, I can’t help muttering under my breath, “Oh sure, everything I own now lives in a box. Wonderful.”
I’ve been thinking a lot about how different life will be in a year, how could I not? I imagine the three of us—Matt, me, and some faceless and genderless adorable baby yet to be—happily sitting around the living room watching some family-appropriate TV show together. Or Matt and I will be happily traipsing through a mall, pushing a stroller and talking about how ridiculously happy we are. Maybe I’ll even sneak a donut when he’s not looking and blame it on the baby’s cravings.
The baby needs a great Dad, all babies do. I can imagine Matt holding a baby, talking softly to it, and helping to sing the baby to sleep. I can imagine him teaching a bigger child how to ride a bike, throwing baseballs around, even holding onto a crying toddler and whispering, “Shhh, it’s okay, Daddy’s here.” I want all that for my child, I really do. I even picture myself in the middle of it, doing a little sarcastic commentary: “Yes, Daddy, that’s exactly how you’re supposed to catch the ball… not like me.”
But part of me cannot reconcile that Matt will be like that all the time. He talks cloying sweet and annoying baby talk to my stomach whenever he gets the chance, but I feel like I want more than that. Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I’m worried I won’t measure up as a Mother? Or maybe I just want a tiny partner-in-crime who lets me eat cookies for breakfast while he’s at work.
No, I want to do all those things. I desperately want to hold this child, raise this little being into a kind and loving person. Maybe I’m just paranoid. Maybe I’ll sneak in some sarcastic one-liners for the kid just to keep it real.
Aren’t I supposed to be feeling the urge to clean? Why do I hate this so much? Making room for another human, I’ll just have to get used to that. I chuckle to myself. I’m going to have to make room for this tiny human pretty soon, might as well clean it all now. Step one to a happy family… cleaning. Step two… survive the next 18 years without losing my mind.
I resume my scrubbing with a new sense of purpose — and a tiny smirk — because deep down I know that somewhere between all the folded towels and polished cabinets, I’ll sneak in some Liz-style mischief. Maybe it’s harmless chaos; maybe it’s teaching the baby to roll its eyes at Dad’s overly cheerful baby talk. Either way, this little human is going to have a mother who won’t let life get boring.
Chapter 42
Liz, February 26
I wake up with a start, almost toppling off my couch. The TV is on and the commercial that woke me with its obnoxious volume is still playing. I check my phone for the time: 1:26 AM. No messages, no alerts. I call Matt’s phone.
“Hello?” Matt’s voice comes out as a question, despite the fact that he has caller ID.
“Hey, it’s me. Sorry to bug you, are you still at work?” I quickly say.
“Yes. I can’t really talk right now. Call you when you leave.”
I hear the phone click softly before I can respond, and I hang up. Again. This is how it’s been lately. Matt is pulling long hours at work in order to save up enough from overtime to “be safe” when the baby is born. I have no idea how much is in that savings account, but whatever the amount, Matt isn’t happy with it.
I toss my phone onto the couch, frustrated. My stomach twists. What am I doing with this? I signed myself up for this life, didn’t I? No, not exactly. I thought I was making the right choice. I thought I wanted it. But I wake up in the middle of the night, alone, wondering if I made a deal with myself to vanish. To disappear.
I stare at the ceiling. I imagine Ben somewhere right now. Is he at a pub, nursing a beer? Is he driving fast down some empty street, letting the engine clear his head? Does he even think about me? Maybe he’s completely moved on. Probably better that way. Still, the thought hits me like a punch in the chest. And yet, I shove it down. I shouldn’t think about him. I can’t. I won’t.
I pull a blanket tighter around me and mutter, “Yeah, because nothing says ‘family’ like 2 AM phone rejections and a fridge full of nothing.” My own sarcasm tastes bitter. My mind races, turning over everything I’ve shoved into the corner of my brain since December. Every laugh I’ve faked, every smile I’ve forced. I’m supposed to be happy. I’m supposed to be grateful. And yet, here I am, questioning every step.
I curl up tighter, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. I could text Ben, just to hear a friendly voice, just to feel that spark of ease that only he can bring. But I don’t. I can’t. I’ve shackled myself to this path. I told myself this is what life looks like now.
Somewhere deep down, the real Liz — the sharp, fearless Liz who doesn’t pretend, who doesn’t settle, who doesn’t wait around for scraps of attention — stirs quietly. She whispers in my mind, but I shut her out. I always do. I take a deep breath, bury the thought of Ben, and fold myself into the life I chose.
The night stretches on. Commercials cycle. The silence presses against me. By the time Matt finally walks through the door, I’ll smile, greet him, and pretend everything is fine. Because that’s what I’ve been doing for months. Pretending.
And yet, tonight, my frustration lingers a little longer, curling around me like smoke, a quiet reminder that pretending is exhausting. Maybe, just maybe, one day, the real me will demand to be seen.