What I've Done

My microwave timer rang out, interrupting the deathly silence in my kitchen. I gathered my courage and took a huge breath before looking down at the little stick in my lap. A pink plus sign stared back up at me.

“Damnit.”

I hardly ever swore, but the current situation called for it. I sat on my kitchen floor for over an hour, trying to let reality sink in. I mean, I should be happy, right? Evan and I want a child. My entire life, I’ve wanted nothing more than to settle down with the perfect man and have 2.5 beautiful children. But at this moment, all I can think about is how disappointed my Mormon mother would be. My entire family is Mormon, which meant that I was completely sheltered throughout my life. In high school, the average teenager would sneak beer or cigarettes into their bedrooms. I, however, snuck in a 2 liter of Pepsi and face cards to play poker with my brother. Never would I think of bringing alcohol into my home. The caffeine was more than enough to make my mom ready to kill me. She made me change dresses on the day of my graduation party because it failed to fall below my knees. What the hell would she think of me now, becoming pregnant before I was even married? Worse than that, becoming pregnant without knowing who the father was?

Oh my God, I don’t know who the father of my child is. I’m honestly not a slut, or someone who goes around sleeping with anything that walks on two legs. In fact, I’ve only been with two men in my entire life, but they sort of meshed together. Now instead of simply freaking out about being pregnant without a husband, I was in hysterics because I don’t even know who to call with the news. At that moment, I began to pray. I’ve never been terribly religious, despite the church-going people who make up my entire family. My brother and I just fell out of our old routine when we left high school. But I still begged God for answers when I was in trouble. And this situation? Screamed trouble.

“Dear God, please let this baby be Evan’s. Please let it be Evan’s. Please, oh please God, let this be Evan’s kid. Amen.”

I repeated it over and over again, as though somehow my chant would become true if I whispered it enough. However, knowing my luck, now matter how many times I say it, or how loud I scream it, or how many people I tell it to, this kid won’t be Evan’s. If it is Evan’s, my life would be too easy. Although, nothing really is easy about having a child out of wedlock, but still. Nothing in my life turned out the way I wanted it. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that the only thing legitimately good in my life is Evan. And if this baby doesn’t turn out to be his, it’s all over. My life won’t have a single good thing in it.

“Damnit.”

Like I said before, I try to refrain from swearing, but sometimes it’s necessary. Sometimes I need to let the bad words drip from my mouth to remind myself that I’ve done something incredibly stupid. Just before I let another batch of tears roll down my face, I heard a lock twist, my front door open, and my fiancé’s sweet voice call my name.

“Damnit.”