“I really didn’t want to take a pity job,” I whisper.
“It’s better than moving in with them.”
I blow out a heavy breath. “But what if I never find a job that’s not a pity job?”
“You will definitely find the right job that’s not a pity job.”
“What if I can’t afford daycare?”
“You’ll be able to afford daycare.”
“But what if I can’t? What if keeping?—”
I stop myself.
I can’t say it out loud. I can’t question my decision about the baby.
I want this baby. I want this baby so much it aches to think of something happening to them.
Not exactly how I envisioned motherhood happening for me, but the minute I saw those two pink lines on the pregnancy test, I knew.
I knew this was right.
That this was what I wanted.
That this baby is the start of the next phase of my life. The good to come from the bad.
“Ziggy. Stop.” Miranda sits on the edge of the empty desk, facing me. “Do you remember the first time we met?”
“Vaguely. You were wearing a unicorn T-shirt. And my mom said I had to share my French fries with you. That’s all I’ve got.”
“My unicorn phase was legendary.” She grins. “What I remember is you telling your mom that you didn’t want her to marry my dad because you wouldn’t make friends if you had to move.”
I grimace. “Turns out I was right.”
“Stop. You weren’t right. Youdidmake friends. Every weekend I spent with Dad, you had friends over or you were at friends’ houses. And then when you left for culinary school, you said you didn’t know if it was what you were really supposed to do, but you loved food, so you had to try it, and you crushed it. And then you were worried that Europe was too far away, but look what you did.”
She’s gesturing wildly with her hands, which means she’s not done. “You spent how many years there? Living on a cruise ship, meeting fascinating people and having adventures and loving your life. Just because those things didn’t last forever doesn’t mean you didn’t face your fears and conquer your challenges. You won’t be pregnant forever. Your baby won’t be in daycare forever. You won’t work here forever. Life changes. You change with it. We hit rough patches and we get through them. You’re not alone, and you’ll be okay. You and the baby. I promise.”
Dammit.
Dammit.
How is it that the little girl who used to make me share my French fries and spilled ketchup on her unicorn shirts is now a fount of life wisdom?
And why am I suddenly sobbing my brains out? “I hope—my baby—is—as smart—as you—one day.”
She giggles as she hugs me. “I love you, you crazy beautiful hot mess.”
“It’s—the hormones,” I wail.
“Mm-hmm.”
“And fucking—Abby—Nora.”
“I would wish very bad things on her, but I’m incapable of wishing bad things on a new mother.”
“Don’t—wish—bad things.”
