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The afternoon Joe left was not as bad as you might think. I'm young, a lot younger than him. Joe thought I would crumble.
"C'mon now," he said, when I recoiled at his hand on my knee. Who does that? Who tells a woman with a ticking clock that the quickest means by which to realize her purpose needs to leave because of serious compatibility issues, all while his loser brother Clyde sits outside in a pickup truck, cake eating grin on his face. Who then feigns consideration with an attempted knee touch and the expectation of tears?
"C'mon, now Mary," Joe said. "You're going to be fine, just fine. You have plenty of fertile years left."
That's not the point. I'm 27-years-old and I can count. The point is he put me way behind schedule. So, I want him to go. Him and Clyde, who'd better turn that music down out there before I call 911.
"Mary, I'm doing this just as much for you as for me. You have your whole life ahead of you. You should enjoy it, you know?"
"I will. My babies will be my joy."
"Okay, but, what if they aren't?"
It's a good thing for Joe I wasn't holding anything sharp. How dare he say that about my unborn children? They will be my joy. How dare he?
NEXT
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