“I’m pregnant.”
She schools her shocked expression quickly, replacing it with compassionate understanding. “Tell me everything.”
It isn’t a long story. Jo listens to every word intently, not interrupting me once. She ties up her blonde hair, a similar shade to mine, though a little shorter now thanks to my ten-month-old niece, Madeline, and her hair grabbing phase.
I stare at my greasy strands. Tears prick my eyes. I don’t want to cut my hair.
“You’re…seven weeks along?” she asks once I’m finished explaining.
“According to the date of my last period. I haven’t seen a doctor yet.”
“And you can’t find the dadanywhere?”
“He’s a ghost. Granted, we didn’t exchange any personal information. God, I’m an idiot.”
“You are not an idiot. We’ll find him.” She squeezes my hand. While I appreciate her optimism, the chances of me locating Warren grow slimmer by the day.
The tips of her fingers turn white, I’m clutching them so hard. “What if I do this—alone—and I’m a terrible mother?”
Jo’s head tilts. “Do you know how many times a day I question whether I’m a good mom?”
“How many?”
“Every hour. More if one of the girls is upset or shit isn’t going to plan. It comes with the territory. I’m always going to want to do better by them, to give them the best, to love them harder than the day before. I don’t always get it right, but when I do…” She smiles with a faraway look in her eyes. “Nothing compares. When I hear a babblingmamafirst thing in the morning, or I’m given a drawing, my heart grows in size. It isn’t always rainbows and butterflies, and some days are fucking hard, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
“You have Patrick, though,” I point out. Envy swirls in my stomach thinking about what a hands-on father my sister’s husband is. They share a daughter, and Patrick’s eldest from abrief relationship stays with them half the time. Jo loves both girls equally and is utterly besotted with them, as they are her. She makes it look easy, and I can’t begin to imagine how I’d live up to her standards.
She leans forward. “You’ll have an army behind you, no matter what you decide.”
Every outcome slips through my fingers as I search my racing thoughts for the answer.
The memories of our mom have faded over time, but they’re filled with joy. Me and my sister dancing with her in the living room as my dad watched. Her sneaking a dollar under my pillow when I was trying to catch the tooth fairy. Hugging me until my tears dried after a nightmare. Helping her choose a record to listen to during dinner.
Growing up without her for most of my life wasn’t easy, and it’s now more than ever I wish she were here.
Could I do that? Dance, play pretend, and comfort my child?
Am I ready for another human to rely on me?
How does this impact my already meager dreams of songwriting? I can’t imagine the industry has many working moms within its ranks.
So prove them wrong,a small, unfamiliar voice says.Do both.
The pressure to decide between motherhood and a career has suffocated me for the past five days, something men rarely have to consider. Warren certainly isn’t in this situation. What if I could do it? Raise a baby, with or without him, and still push to get my songs heard. If I never find Warren, or if he doesn’t wish to be involved, working full time is the only option.
I shouldn’t have to choose.
The baby is the size of a button at this stage. Smaller? It’searly days, with a lot to figure out, but as I press a hand to my stomach, some of the unease floats away.
New emotions settle in my bones.
Determination. Love.
I want this tiny human. This isn’t how I saw it happening, but I think of all the incredible women in my life who balance being a mom and having a career. It’ll be far from easy, and despite the lingering panic, I believe my sister and friends when they say I won’t be doing this alone.
Maybe I knew the answer all along and seeing Johanna simply confirmed it. Either way, I’m going to do this.
Icando this.
