I’ve completed my online education well enough to know that weeks of pregnancy are counted from the first day of the last period. Cycles, ovulation days, diary in hand; I now know for certain that it was that night, that bottle of Pinot Grigio, that drunken lovemaking in my bedroom.
My brother calls from Italy:
“I could sense that something was up. It’s going to be ok. Whatever you decide is the right decision. Have you told mum? Who’s the father? I know that I’ve just become a father, and that our sister is about to become a mother, but don’t you put any pressure on yourself with any of that. Everything will work out fine! I am here for you”
Running thoughts. Fantasies of family reunions, of cousins running around and playing together, my brother, my sisters and I, accomplished parents.
Anxiety attack. How can I possibly be ready for motherhood? Ever?
This is hell.
I hate today.