How long are pregnancies supposed to last?
I was drafting a breakup message when Abby, my girlfriend, texted me first.
“I’m pregnant.”
How can two words so dramatically change the trajectory of your life?
Well, I’m not a piece of shit. I’m going to do the right thing. I will ignore the aching feeling that I just don’t like Abby. That I don’t like being around her. That I find her boring, immature. None of that matters anymore. I have to be there for my son.
And I just know it’s going to be a boy.
We got married at the county register of deeds. No roofy-toofy wedding we couldn’t afford (despite Abby deeply wanting one). It felt business-like, as it should.
Those first eight months were brutal. I found her mewling demands infuriating. Foot massages. Oh, quick run to the store to get me those pickles I like. Why are you acting so distant? I wanted to put my head through a wall.
But I didn’t. I had to be strong. For my son.
I had the due date marked on the calendar. Counted down the fucking hours ‘til I would see my son. Knew my life would change infinitely the instant I saw him.
Nine months came and went.
She didn’t give birth.
Abby had been pregnant for ten months when I begged her to see a doctor.
“Nothings wrong,” she insisted.
“Yes, something very much is wrong.”
“Glenn, trust me, nothing is wrong. He’ll come out when he’s ready.”
Trust her? How the hell could I?
Eleven months of pregnancy. Twelve months. I contemplated crude methods of sedating her. Knocking her out and getting her to a doctor to receive the C-Section she flat out refused to get.
She kept saying those words over and over again.
“He’ll come out when he’s ready.”
Every week that passed brewed more fury in me.
At sixteen months pregnant, I began to believe she was doing this on purpose. This was some otherworldly scheme to spite me. I was losing the ability to keep my calm.
“Abby, it’s time.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes it is! It’s time.”
“He’ll come out when he’s–”
“Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that again.”
“Maybe,” she said, “you’re just not ready to be a father. Maybe that’s why–”
I couldn’t help but yell. “I’m ready to be a father! I would kill for my son!”
“Oh please. Kill for him? Nobody’s asking you to kill anything. Would you care for him? Love him no matter what?” She pauses, and I see insubordination in her eyes. “Would you love his mother?”
“You’ll never know what it’s like to feel so strongly for your child you’d kill for him. That is my burden! Now this has to stop! See a doctor! Give me my son! I’m not asking!”
Our fights grew more frequent.
Two years of pregnancy.
I can’t leave. Not while she has my son.
I find myself on medical websites. Researching emergency home Cesareans. My eyes shaping up kitchen knives I don’t think will be sharp enough.
I can see my son under her skin. He has grown large, strong and healthy. At least, I hope. The shape of his face is almost discernible and I can see my nose on him. I swear I can see it.
Three years of pregnancy, and I can no longer hold in my rage. I have put so many holes in the drywall. How can she be so stubborn?
Four years have passed.
Five.
Five years of pregnancy. Abby insists everything is fine. That our unnamed son will be ready to enter this world when I’m ready to be a loving father. That bitch. She’s the size of a whale. She can barely walk our son is so big inside her. Stretching her skin. Swelling her joints.
I must admit, I have a mental breakdown, and I run. Flee. Escape.
No child is worth the torture she has put me through. My son will have to be a broken young man. Fatherless. Lost and afraid.
It has been seven years since I received that fateful, “I’m pregnant,” message.
I’ve spent the last two years couch surfing, or I’m ashamed to admit, sleeping in my car. Odd jobs. Miserable nights. Drinking everything I can steal. Trying to forget. Failing.
And, perhaps only because it is Christmas, I find myself driving to Abby’s house. Out of body. As if I can’t control what I’m doing. I’m being drawn to her.
I park across the street. Can see right in through her grand living room window.
Under a Christmas tree, Abby sits in her pajamas across from my son. He opens presents, and a smile lights up on his face. He hugs her. They laugh. Laugh like they’ve known each other their whole lives.
I see red. Not from any Christmas lights, but from what was stolen from me.
I run to her front door, but of course it’s locked.
So I go to that living room window and start punching. I’m going to take my son back.
As the glass breaks, I feel the shards shred through my jacket and wrists.
Abby is not frightened at all, like my son is. She grabs him and carries him away into a different room all in a flash.
I have made mincemeat out of the glass and my skin. I have one leg through the window sill when Abby returns with a sleek little handgun.
“I’m also willing to kill for him.”
