“I need to go for a run,” Landen says. His eyes are unfocused and his fists are clenched. My head is spinning from the sudden change. One minute everything was perfect and now it’s a mess.
“You just got home,” I say, unable to keep the soft sound of pleading out of my voice. “I thought we were going to dinner.”
“Just order in. I’m not hungry.”
My eyes widen in shock. I mean, we’ve had fights. We’ve yelled and slammed doors. He doesn’t like me taking night classes, says that it’s unsafe. When I signed up for one so I could volunteer with Bridging the Gap during the day, he nearly lost his mind. But this is different. It’s not usually me causing the rage he tries so hard to outrun.
Until now.
I stand there, at the kitchen counter, in the spot where my life just went to crap in zero to fifteen seconds and watch him grab his T-shirt and walk out. I flinch at the sound of our door slamming shut.
For a minute, I’m overcome by loneliness. I was excited about telling him, nervous, but looking forward to it. Mostly. And now I can’t swallow. Can’t fight off the tears that well up so fast they’re falling faster than I can wipe them.
He left. Left me alone. Except…I’m not alone. Glancing down, I realize I’m already cradling my stomach with my arm.
“Daddy will be back, baby. I promise.”
It’s after midnight when I hear him come in. I hold my breath and wait. Surely he’ll come crawl into bed, apologize, and hold me. We’ll talk about our fears, reassuring each other that we’re in this together. By the time we fall asleep, everything will be okay. That’s what I tell myself as I release the breath my lungs were holding hostage.
We’ll keep each other still because that’s what we’ve always done.
I listen to the sounds of doors opening and closing. Hear the shower turn on. And off a few minutes later. Straining, I can barely make out the sounds of him fumbling around our small apartment. But I never hear him come in the bedroom. I don’t hear it because it doesn’t happen. He doesn’t even open the door to check on me. Which is so unlike him it makes my chest ache.
A lump rises in my throat as the apartment falls silent. We have a second bedroom with an old bed and a computer desk in it. The realization that he’s decided to sleep in there hits hard and provokes a fresh wave of tears.
I let my arm out from under my pillow. My hand slides across the cold sheets where he should be.
In the darkness, my mind races to take stock of what my options are if Landen doesn’t want this. If he only wants me and if pregnant me is a deal breaker. My heart refuses to accept that as a possibility. Landen loves me with a ferocity unlike anything I’ve ever known. But my mind…my mind is already a mother. Already trying to scheme and plan and make sure this child growing inside of me gets everything he or she will ever need or want. And that they never, ever have to feel this kind of sharp, stinging pain and rejection.
I lost my parents when I was thirteen and a stranger murdered them. I want this baby to be loved and hugged and have the kind of childhood I did before my parents were taken away. A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I let myself remember. My mom and dad used to dance in the kitchen. They used to sing embarrassingly loud in the car. Even if I had a friend with me. Hot tears burn down my face and leak into my ear. They kissed me—and each other—in public. They held my hands everywhere we went.
They would’ve been amazing grandparents. Manufactured memories of Christmases we’ll never have together assault me and I cry harder. For what I’ve lost. For what my child will never have.
Something warm stirs inside of me and it takes a few seconds to realize what it is. I’m sad about Landen’s reaction. I know this. I know I’m disappointed and hurt. But underneath that lies an emotion I’m not all that familiar with.
I’m angry.
How can he not want this? I know in the depths of my soul that he’s afraid. Scared that something will happen to me if I don’t have this surgery. I’m scared, too. But at some point, maybe the instant I realized I was responsible for the life growing inside of me, I stopped being afraid for myself.
I just want this child—my child, our child—to have the kind of life he or she deserves. And if Landen doesn’t want this and something does happen to me, I don’t know what kind of life my baby will get. My aunt is not the motherly type at all. She loves me and would do anything for me, but she’s not the most affectionate human being on the planet. She’s kind of cold actually and singularly focused on her career now that she isn’t raising me anymore. I love her and am so grateful for everything she’s done for me, but she’s not someone I would want to raise my child. And Landen’s parents…Oh God. Oh God. It makes so much sense that I could cry out in relief.
His mom is a decent person as far as I know, but his father is a nightmare. Literally. He’s an awful man that I’ve only met a few times and each time he was horrible. He was violent and abusive, and how Landen turned out to be such an amazing man in spite of that is nothing short of amazing.
That man is never coming near my child. Ever. If this hematoma on my brain bursts and I die, I will come back from the grave and haunt him to death if he ever goes anywhere near my baby.
Understanding that this is most likely the cause of Landen’s reaction earlier sinks in and allows me to breathe a little more easily. He never talks about his dad. He refuses to and shuts down completely if I ever dare to bring the man up in conversation. We don’t discuss his childhood at all unless he’s telling me about one of the many cities he lived in.
I tell myself that Landen probably just feels overwhelmed. Like he won’t know how to be a good dad because he didn’t have one. My stomach unclenches slightly and I focus on overcoming the sobs. Lord, this night did not go as I expected it to.
My friend Corin is the only person I’ve told I am pregnant.
“Are you worried about what Landen will say?” she asked when I told her. I told myself since she’s in California she couldn’t possibly understand what Landen and I have. How strong our connection is. I smiled and shook my head even though we were on the phone and she couldn’t see me.
But now, lying here alone with tears slipping down my face and onto my pillow, I’m thinking maybe she understands a whole lot better than I do.