My period had been almost two weeks late, before I developed a panic. A fist-shaped rock nestled in my stomach. The ultimate dream crusher, a belly buster. I peed on a stick, then cried, wet and crumpled on a fuzzy bathroom rug. I wanted to fall asleep there. I wanted to be cradled in a different dream. Instead, I sat with my mistake, plunged my hands into it until I was submerged, head-first, in porcelain and whatever I had for lunch. I became too busy with the dread to notice the sun had disappeared. And the grad school applications had closed.

I don’t think I spoke to anyone after. Not for weeks at least. My mom kept calling. I carefully avoided them. Then I told her about grad school, she told me that I really had every opportunity to be better than that. She knew my hunger well. But she wasn’t shocked that I had a dizzy spell and said to quit making a habit of falling on my face. It felt like a knife, it left a bitter taste. She was out for blood. We both knew it. She hung up and I told the dial tone I was pregnant.