“Don’t tell me that, Mary.”
“I’m telling you because it’s true and because I want you to come visit.”
“I just left. I can’t come back yet.” I picked at a thread on the couch cushion. “Is he eating okay?”
“He’s eating fine. He’s just sad. Dogs get sad, Andrea. They miss people.”
My throat tightened. I knew that too. Better than most.
Mary was quiet for a second, then her voice shifted. Gentler, but firm underneath. “Okay, different topic. The therapy group. You said you’d think about it.”
“I have been thinking about it.”
“For two weeks. The thinking phase is over. Go.”
So I went. Wednesday evening, community center on Birch Street, folding chairs in a circle, a coffee machine in the corner producing something brown and lukewarm that had given up on being coffee a long time ago. Dr. Rita ran it, a calm woman with reading glasses and a voice that made you want to sit down and tell her things you’d never said out loud.
I almost left before it started. I was in the doorway gripping my water bottle, one foot in the room, the rest of me calculating the distance back to my car, when a woman in the chair nearest the door looked up.
“If you’re thinking about running, don’t. The coffee is terrible but the company is decent.”
She had sharp eyes, dark hair cut blunt at her jaw, and the expression of someone who had zero patience for bullshit, including her own. I liked her immediately.
I sat down.
Dr. Rita asked everyone to introduce themselves. I went last because going last is the coward’s move and I was not above cowardice.
“I’m Andrea. I’m pregnant, I’m single, and I moved across the country because my ex broke my heart.” I paused. “That’s the short version. The long version involves a lot of crying and some noodles.”
“Been there,” the woman by the door said. “Except the pregnant part. That’s a bonus level.”
That was Adela.
The woman beside me snorted so loud it echoed off the beige walls. “Girl, same. Minus the pregnant part. And the noodles. I’m more of a cereal-at-3-am person.”
That was Hallie.
A hand appeared from my other side holding a tissue. I hadn’t asked for it. I hadn’t even realized my eyes were wet. The woman holding it out didn’t say anything, just waited with a patient expression until I took it.
Tara. She carried a bag that seemed to have everything in it.
We talked. Dr. Rita guided it gently. When it was my turn I kept it short: fell for someone, got rejected, left town. I left out the parts I couldn’t explain and kept the parts that mattered. My voice shook in places I didn’t expect it to, and I had to stop twice to swallow and regroup, but nobody rushed me. They just waited.
Adela leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms. “That’s garbage.”
“Which part?” I asked.
“All of it. The man is garbage. The situation is garbage. You deserve better.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“Don’t need to. You showed up here pregnant and alone and you’re still standing. That tells me plenty.”
My throat tightened. I took a sip of the terrible coffee to hide it.
Hallie said “men are a disease, I swear” then launched into her own story about an ex who proposed to her and his other girlfriend on the same weekend. “Same ring too. Bulk discount, I guess.” The room erupted. I found myself laughing so hard my stomach cramped. When I stopped I realized my eyes were wet again, but for a different reason, and I couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.
Tara asked how far along I was. When I said ten weeks she pulled a list of prenatal vitamins out of her bag. She circled two brands, wrote her phone number at the bottom, handed it to me.“Call me if you need anything. Three in the morning, doesn’t matter.”
