My mother called him instead.
I’d wanted him beside me when I told her.
My mother called him instead.
I learned later that she’d told him I didn’t want to see him again. Then she packed our things and took me to another state.
To me, she said, “I told him about the baby.”
“He doesn’t want either of you.”
“What did he say?”
“He doesn’t want either of you. Don’t humiliate yourself chasing him.”
I wrote to him anyway. I gave my mother the envelopes because she drove past the post office.
“Anything for me?” I asked every afternoon.
“I’m keeping my baby.”
Eventually, mom stopped answering and simply shook her head.
When my jeans wouldn’t button, she placed adoption information beside my breakfast.
“I’m keeping my baby.”
“And where will you live?”
“Here. I’ll work.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
My mother scoffed. “Who will watch him? Who will pay the bills while you finish school?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Not in my house.”
I pushed the papers away.
“Who will watch him?”
She pushed them back. “You can give him parents who are ready, or you can ruin two lives instead of one.”
I kept writing to my boyfriend until my mother found me crying over another unfinished letter.
