“I’m not starting over with three more,” she said.
From the nursery came another burst of crying.
Mom grabbed a sweater.
“I want to live while I still can.”
I stared at her.
“Those are your daughters, Mom. They’re three months old.”
“I know.”
“I want to live while I still can.”
“Then stop packing.”
She zipped the suitcase.
I followed her downstairs.
“Mom, you’re exhausted. Sleep. I’ll take tonight.”
“No.”
“One night.”
“Aaron.”
“One day, then,” I begged. “We’ll call somebody tomorrow. We’ll figure it out.”
She reached the front door.
I stepped in front of it.
“Mom, please… they need you.”
“We’ll call somebody tomorrow. We’ll figure it out.”
Her hand tightened around the suitcase handle.
For one strange second, she stopped.
She looked toward the staircase.
Then at me.
I remember thinking she was about to change her mind.
For 20 years, I remembered that pause as the last piece of my mother that almost stayed.
I remember thinking she was about to change her mind.
Then she looked away.
“I’m sorry.”
She walked out.
I stood in the doorway until her car disappeared.
Behind me, three babies kept crying.
Chicago stopped mattering before I even closed the door.
The next morning, I called the company.
The woman from human resources sounded stunned.
Chicago stopped mattering before I even closed the door.
“You haven’t even started.”
“I know.”
“We can delay your date.”
“I can’t move.”
“Is there some emergency?”
I looked toward the living room.
Three bassinets.
Three bottles cooling on the counter.
One baby screaming because apparently the other two had taken a suspiciously long break.
“Is there some emergency?”
“Yeah.” I swallowed. “There is.”
That was the end of Chicago.
People loved the phrase “gave up.”
They said it constantly.
Nothing about becoming a parent happened neatly.
There were social workers.
