By Nicole Jacques

Originally published in HerStry

I nominated my mother to share the news of my pregnancy with the rest of our family. I was confident my father and brother wouldn’t kill the messenger, but I knew for certain they would want to kill the message.

I was nineteen and in my second year of college, paid for by ever-accumulating student loans. I worked part-time at a bookstore for a dime above minimum wage. I lived with my boyfriend of a year in a small apartment a couple blocks from my parents. I was broke, uninsured, and unwed. I sometimes felt barely able to take care of myself, so how could I explain to my family that I was going to take care of a baby too?

My mother would accept the news the easiest. She would be disappointed and doubtful of my maternal aptitude, but she would soften as soon as she imagined herself holding a newborn. She wanted nothing more than a new object of her adoration now that her own children were adults. Mom would be an advocate for her grandchild and me — once she came around.

I stopped by my parents’ house unannounced on a weekday afternoon when I knew my father and brother were at work. Mom was a homemaker, so she’d be alone. I found her in front of the kitchen sink, rinsing off the breakfast dishes.

“Nicki!” she exclaimed. “I’m so happy you came by! Have a piece of banana bread. I made it for your father.”

Mom wiped her hands off on a dishtowel and headed toward a foil-wrapped loaf on the countertop. I settled into a kitchen chair and sat on my hands, willing them to stop trembling. I told myself the anxiety leading up to my confession was surely worse than the atonement would be afterward.

“How’s school?” she asked.

“Good,” I said. “Really good, actually. All A’s so far this semester.” I took advantage of the opportunity to curry favor from the start.

“That’s my girl,” Mom beamed. “You take after your mother.”

This was Mom’s favorite joke. She’d never gone to college, nor did she seem to have much at all in common with me aside from some DNA and a last name. She knew this, and she needled me by drawing comparisons between us, laughing at the rise she could get out of me.

“I think I really am about to take after you,” I said.

Mom had cut off a slice of banana bread and set it on a paper napkin. She smiled playfully at my response and slid the snack across the table toward me. “Really?”

I couldn’t bring my hands up above the tabletop. They were heavy and numb beneath the weight of my thighs, prickling with painful electrical sparks.

“Yeah,” I nodded, staring into her face. I wanted to see her reaction, to gauge the destruction from the bomb I was about to ignite. “I’m going to be a mother.”

“Well, I certainly hope so,” agreed Mom. “Someday.”

“In about seven or so months,” I clarified.

Mom’s face belied her composure only for a flash. “Very funny.”

I hadn’t even considered that convincing my mother of my maternity would be an additional step in winning her endorsement of it. “I’m not joking.”

“Oh, Nicki, you’re not pregnant,” she explained. “You’re smarter than that.”

There it was: the first admonishment. Surprisingly it wasn’t one I’d expected, so it stung more sharply than I’d anticipated, too. “I guess I’m not as smart as you think I am.”

Now, Mom knew I wasn’t lying. I would never accept an insult to my intelligence. Her lips parted subtly, and her eyes studied my own as if searching for the truth in them. The bomb’s fuse was lit, and it was smoldering. Seconds passed — minutes, maybe? — while she considered her next words. “Oh, no, Nicki…” she sighed.

Boom.

I had to deliver my grounds for a peace treaty before my mother could launch a counter-offensive. “Before you say anything, I need you to know I’m going to have the baby,” I confirmed. “And if anyone in this family even mentions the word ‘abortion,’ they won’t be part of the baby’s life.”

Mom shook her head, “I would never…”

“I know you wouldn’t. But, I know Dad and Ryan will.” I pulled my hands from my seat and felt the burning rush of blood flow to my fingertips as I curled them into fists. “I want you to tell them that if either one of them even jokes about it, they will never, ever see —”

“They won’t,” my mother cut me off.

I could tell I already had her on my team. She was already a grandmother.

*

I was raised in a conservative Anglo-American family that held onto its moral fabric like a stubborn child clings to a blankie. No matter how many years passed and how much the society around my family outgrew them, my parents continued to hold the timeworn and threadbare ideals of their own parents and grandparents. A woman’s place was in the home. A marriage was forever. A child should obey its elders.

I tore holes in their fabric from the start. I was a brash, sassy little girl. Told I was too young to walk to school alone, I slipped out of the house and headed off early before my mother could catch me. Told I was too immature to take care of a pet, I collected caterpillars in the backyard and made them a shoebox home in my bedroom. I constantly needed to prove myself.

My recalcitrance grew to revolt during my teenage years when the hard-line rules of our family grew stiffer. Girls weren’t allowed out of the house after dark — a rule that only applied to me. If I ever brought a Black boy home, I could pack my bags and never come back. I couldn’t dress “indecently” because people would get the wrong idea about our family. My parents expected me to uphold their 1950s-era standard of propriety while I was living under their roof.

The walls under that roof seemed to be closing in on me by the time I was in high school. I watched my brother come and go at all hours of the night, while I wasn’t allowed to drive in cars with friends or go to parties. I would scream at my father, demanding equal treatment as my brother. He would raise his hand as if to bring it down on me and demand that I keep my voice low so our neighbors wouldn’t hear me making a scene.

Now, I knew it was also the neighbors that my father would worry about when he found out I was pregnant. The neighbors’ pity and judgment would bring shame down on his family, so his right-wing politics bent to the left where abortion was concerned. The neighbors would never know if I quietly took care of my “problem” at a clinic. But, if I didn’t rid myself of my embarrassing mistake, my father’s entire sphere of friends, acquaintances, and colleagues would see my inevitable baby bump, my ringless finger, and my irresponsible decision-making. Like a Salem witch, I would be encircled by a community of Puritans building a pyre, and my father would be holding the match.

*

It was 1997 when I found out I was pregnant and decided I wanted to become a mother. I was lucky I had a decision to make, since that year rests squarely in between two American eras in which the opportunity for a woman to decide for herself wasn’t guaranteed. When I was nineteen, it seemed unimaginable that there was ever a time when women weren’t allowed to make decisions about their own bodies. So, when the choice was mine, I hardly realized the good fortune I had been afforded by having the right to an abortion. It was my right to motherhood that felt questionable.

Back then, the list of reasons why I wasn’t ready for motherhood would have filled all of my college textbooks combined. The potential impact on my education and career was inarguable. The financial fallout was all but inevitable. I’d never changed a diaper, baby-sat, or otherwise looked after any children. My history of getting in my own way was well known by friends and family alike, so I understood their concern. Still, I wanted this baby, no matter what my family wanted.

Even my brother, who had never been a guardian, a protector or even a close friend to me, felt like his vote should count, as if my uterus was a democracy. My mother would eventually admit that he thought he could convince me to do the “right” thing — or maybe he’d just lock me in a car and drive me to a clinic. I’d thank him later, he’d told Mom.

While these discussions were going on, I was exiled from my family. The morning after my mother shared my good news with Dad and Ryan, she called to tell me to stay away from the house for a while.

“Just until they calm down,” Mom explained.

“They may never calm down,” I pointed out.

“Of course, they will,” Mom assured me. Her voice was soft and honeyed. “Just give it some time.”

While I awaited readmittance into the family fold, I had my first doctor’s appointment. The doctor turned out to be an older man with a bedside manner that would better suit a proctology office than a childbirth clinic. Solemn and standoffish, he reviewed my forms, inquired about my family medical history, and asked about the baby’s father.

And then he asked, “You definitely want to have this baby?”

I was suddenly transported back to my mother’s kitchen, convincing her I knew what I was doing. My hands went numb again, even as I curled my fingers into fists. “Yes, of course.”

“I just want to make sure you’re aware of all your options,” he explained. I could see that the medical folder in his hand contained several flyers with headlines like “Choice” and “Adoption.” I momentarily wondered if my family had called ahead and set me up for this. “You indicated this was an unplanned pregnancy.”

“Unplanned but not unwanted,” I replied tersely.

The doctor closed the folder brusquely and pushed it aside. “Okay, then. Let’s do an exam.”

I left the office a half-hour later with a due date and a follow-up appointment. It felt like it should be a celebratory moment, so I called my best friend Beth when I got home. Friends since eighth grade, she and I were now in college together. She’d been the first person with whom I’d shared the news of my pregnancy, and she would undoubtedly be by my side throughout it.

“Turns out I’m due before the end of fall semester,” I said. “Do you think my professors will let me take my finals late?”

“Wow,” she replied. “So this is really happening?”

I cringed. This was the biggest event of my life so far. When was someone going to pop a cork and whoop with joy?

“Yup,” I confirmed. “It’s really happening.”

*

Mom called a few days before Easter to invite me to the family’s holiday dinner. Having never needed an invitation to eat with them — holiday or not — I felt suddenly like a pitiable, lonely neighbor invited out of obligation. I accepted it gracefully, since I felt like I’d caused the rift and I knew better than to bore into its faultline.

I tried to take my mind off things by running some errands. At a local department store, I searched the racks for a new bra that might hide my swollen breasts, or some stretch pants to hide my expanding hips. Or, I wondered, should I affix a scarlet letter to my chest instead of waiting for it to grow out of my stomach?

As I skirted along the women’s clearance section, I was slowly approaching the kids’ department, and soon my eyes were drawn across the aisle to a rack of newborn clothing. Pale pinks and brilliant blues sprouted off the racks like flowers in a garden. There were doll-size dresses and miniature sweaters as though they’d been shrunk in a dryer. Of course, I knew what kids’ clothes looked like, but I’d never really seen the tiny details and startlingly small sizes until now.

I crossed the aisle and stood in front of the rack, too anxious to touch the clothes, as if they were as delicate as the little beings meant to fit inside them. A baby is so small and breakable, I thought. One little mistake — a fall, a spill, a burn — could maim it for life. I was often careless; inevitably I’d drop a baby, or forget to feed it, or roll over on it. I could hear my father’s and brother’s voices in my head now, reminding me how ill-prepared I was to be a parent. It’s not too late, I thought. I didn’t have to do this.

I ran my finger along the footie of a sunny yellow onesie that shone brightly from its hanger. An embroidered duck floated on the front of it, and its sleeves were striped like a golden candy-cane. I imagined the smiling, happy baby that would wear it. This wasn’t an outfit for a bloody or bruised child, but for a coddled and content one. I pulled the onesie off its hanger and strode toward the register. I was a real mother buying her real baby an outfit, I thought. At the counter, I dug distractedly through my purse for my near-empty wallet while the woman behind the register prepared a bag for my purchase.

“Oh, my, isn’t this adorable,” she cooed as she scanned the price tag. She was an archetype for a kids-department sales associate. Her graying hair was pulled back into a bun and her glasses sat low over her nose. I imagined her knitting caps and scarves for her own children. “Who’s the beautiful baby you’re buying this for?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I haven’t actually met him — or her — just yet.” I rubbed my belly.

“You’re expecting!” she exclaimed. “Congratulations! What a lucky young woman you are! And what a lucky baby you’ve got coming.”

There it was: the pop of the cork I’d been waiting weeks for. I could almost feel the champagne tingling my skin as this woman’s words drenched me in warm effervescence. She was happy for me! I wanted to hug her, to invite her to my baby shower, to have her hold my hand in the delivery room.

“Thank you so much,” I said. I locked my eyes onto hers, intoxicated by their overflowing cheer and optimism. “I’m really excited to be a mom.”

*

The two-mile drive to my parents’ house on Easter Sunday wasn’t nearly long enough. I felt like I needed more time to rehearse the various speeches I’d written in my mind over the past two weeks: why I wasn’t going to get married, how I planned to support my child, and how I would manage school with no interruption in my classes. None of them was an airtight argument, yet I felt suffocated by the burden of presenting them to my family.

I arrived in the early afternoon. Despite my parents’ Puritan morals, they had never been religious, so church wasn’t part of our holiday celebrations. My mother had undoubtedly spent a secular morning preparing a ham roast and chopping vegetables while my father and brother watched television. I was certain that, like me, they’d also been preparing their own speeches about my competence and capability as a mother. Christian or not, they had their own good book of commandments to follow.

I pulled into their driveway and turned off my car. I could feel the familiar flow of adrenaline prickling through my bloodstream, telling me to be on guard. I took two deep breaths and reached across the passenger’s seat to pick up my purse. Underneath it, I noticed the plastic shopping bag from yesterday’s purchase. I hadn’t even brought it inside when I’d gotten home, too distracted by daydreams of the little person who would be wearing the new outfit. Now, here it was, a ray of light trapped inside a plastic bag.

I slipped the onesie out and nervously rubbed the cotton hem between my fingers, remembering the sweet saleslady who assured me my baby was lucky. She didn’t know how I’d once needed stitches after trying to pull a wine cork with a steak knife, or how I’d backed my car into a tree trying to do a three-point turn. Worse, I’d once lived in the dark for two weeks when the power company got tired of waiting for my payment, and these days, I was paying for heat with my student loans. That lucky baby would have to be pretty resilient to live on peanuts with a mother who wielded cutlery like a corkscrew.

My family didn’t even know about the stitches or the overdue utility notices, but they knew me. While they weren’t wrong about my lack of parental prowess, they weren’t right either. I pushed the onesie back into its bag and tossed it in the back seat. I had time to figure this out, I thought. I was barely two months pregnant, so every option in the world was open to me, including a good parenting class or some babysitting.

I opened up the car door and stepped out. No clouds parted and no beam of light shined down from the sky to show me the right path. But, for a moment, I felt the anxious prickle under my skin soften into the subtle tingle of celebration again. I stepped up to the door of my family’s house and headed inside to celebrate the holiday.