I thought of my child, today. I would have named her Danni, after my Grandmother. She would’ve had a tire swing in a big backyard. She would be read bedtime stories every night, and kissed on the forehead when they ended. She would have big, brown eyes like me and her father.
Her father. That fucking prick. I ran away with him. I threw my life away for him. And he left. He fucking left me with a note taped to the fridge. I didn’t even notice it was there until hours later. I thought maybe he had gone to the store, or the bank, or *something*. I did my normal morning routine not even knowing he was gone for good. I had breakfast, which I probably should have waited to do until after my morning sickness, took my vitamins, and played the closest thing I had to Mozart to my belly. I played Hunky Dory, which in hindsight wasn’t very close at all. But at least Danni would come out liking David Bowie, which I think was more important than liking classical music. Went the album ended, I got up slowly and waddled to the fridge to get a cup of pudding. I don’t even like pudding, but God did I want some. When I closed the door, I saw the note staring me in the face.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
My legs went weak and I had to hold on to the counter to keep myself from falling. I didn’t want to cry, but I did. I cried like I never had. And that was the last time I did.1