Not My Baby

I woke that morning feeling ill to my stomach. Stale cigarette butts in dirty ashtrays made me nauseous. The last time that happened I was…pregnant…with Bee. Oh…God,

please help me.

Bee’s father was in Cleveland for the weekend with “her” and performing in 1776. I couldn’t afford to be pregnant. I had already lost my job. Too many scars. Too many excuses. I would love another child, but the timing was off.

I fed Bee her breakfast in her high chair. Her big, bright brown eyes smiled up at me. She laughed. I couldn’t help but laugh with her. She was my world.

 

I put the movie Shrek on. Which made her happier, then went into the bathroom and cried.

I muffled the screams of anguish with a towel in my mouth. I bit down on it hard enough my gums bled. The nausea turned into pain. That pain spread up my back. It morphed into waves of pain that consumed me. I curled into the fetal position on the cool bathroom tiles. Within moments my mouth was not the only place bleeding.

Apparently, God did not want me to have this child and took it back to heaven.