Then, one afternoon, I stopped by Penelope’s house after a routine appointment.
She was in another room on the phone, and I was about to call out to her when I heard my name.
I froze.
Then Penelope lowered her voice and said,
“She can’t find out the truth before the baby is born.”
My hand went to my stomach without thinking.
I stood there in the hallway, not breathing, not moving.
Penelope’s voice was low and tight, the way it gets when she’s scared.
“I know, I know,” she said into the phone.
“But she’s eight months along.
If she finds out now, everything falls apart.”
A pause.
Then: “She loves this baby already.
That’s the problem.”
I pressed my back against the wall.
My legs felt hollow.
What did that mean — *that’s the problem?*
I had given up eight months of my body.
I had endured every appointment, every discomfort, every sleepless night — for her.
