I smile proudly at the nursery I just finished decorating. The walls were painted a sky blue with strategically placed cloud and airplane decals.
A sturdy, wooden crib stood majestically in the middle of the room—a matching diaper station next to it.
“Wow, mama bear…” my fiancé, Chris, smiled, “this looks great.”
“You think so?”
“Benjamin will love it.” Chris grinned as he gently stroked my stomach. I hate when he does that.
“I have to go,” I said quickly, “I’ll be late for my check up.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”
“Stop. I need you to work all the hours you can.”
“Ok, but drive carefully,” Chris said softly, “Benjamin is due any day now.”
Chris and I went through a rough patch last year. He wanted kids, and I had problems conceiving. Each miscarriage I suffered dealt a devastating blow to our relationship.
We tried various fertility treatments with no results—unless you count the 80 pounds I gained. Benjamin was our last hope.
I got into my car, and zoomed into town. As I passed the hospital, my guilty conscience weighed heavily on me. So many lies.
My phone rings.
“Door is unlocked. Just walk in!” It’s Kara. We met online on an Expectant Mothers forum 6 months ago, and met in person last month. We've been inseparable since. She’s due any day now.
I park in front of Kara’s house and I feel the sting of remorse.
*Stop*, I tell myself firmly—my hand clutching my barren womb.
I look into my purse. Chloroform. Duct tape. Knives.
I’m sorry, Kara.
I *really* need this baby.