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I bolted upright, my stomach tightening. “How could you say that to me? I was trying to turn you on. To spice up our sex life. How could you—”

“You wanted my opinion. I gave it to you.”

“You sure did.” I jumped off the bed and ran to the bathroom. Tears were already streaming down my face.

Robert
knew
how much his comment would hurt.
All my life, I had run from the stigma of my mother’s behavior. To compare me to her…

Even though my mother had married my dad, she had never been faithful to him. She had slept with man after man. And then she’d left my father—moving from Ohio to Philadelphia with some truck driver she’d barely known.

That relationship hadn’t lasted. A succession of men had come and gone through my life. Some for a few days. Some for longer. Some who seemed as love struck as my father, only to end up brokenhearted.

Once I’d been old enough to understand my mother’s behavior, I had been able to separate her from her actions. I guess it was a coping mechanism. I loved her. She was my mom, even if she was emotionally vacant. Even if she was more concerned about snagging her next boyfriend than about taking me shopping, or to the movies. But when she’d left my dad and brought other men into my life in his place, I had grown to resent her.

All I could think about was the father who was no longer in my life, and how hurt he must have been after standing by my mother despite her behavior for so many years. I’d lost my dad—and it was all my mom’s fault.

There have been many times when I’ve thought back to that day when I was fourteen and my father suggested we take a trip to Texas. My mother had run away with me only days later. Maybe she feared that my father wanted to make a clean break from her. Had that been his intention? Had my mother’s running away with me been a panicked reaction to the thought of losing
me, or had she been planning to abandon my father all along?

I would never know the answer. All I knew was that my life had only gotten more difficult.

At my new high school in Philadelphia, my mother slept with the principal and caused the breakup of his marriage. Word got out, and I was teased endlessly by other students. Humiliated by what they said about my mother. It was a truly awful time in my life. My mom had never been there for me emotionally the way other mothers were for their kids—cheering for them on the volleyball court, sitting in the audience, beaming, at the school play. I came to understand that it was my mother’s emotional unavailability that had led me to suffer from low self-esteem, making me a prime target for bullies.

At least when my father was around, I hadn’t felt as alone in my suffering. But without him, the bullies who teased me in high school, spreading rumors that I was easy just like my mother, succeeded in sending me running from Philadelphia as soon as I was old enough. I followed Treasure, my one good friend from high school, to North Carolina.

I dated, but I didn’t trust men. Or perhaps it was myself I didn’t trust.

I didn’t want to become my mother.

Then I’d met Robert. And he’d offered me a whole new life.

He’d offered me safety. Security. A marriage that was nothing like my parents’.

But what had I sacrificed in the process?

Robert’s comment about my mother cut me deeply. It was a wound that I wasn’t sure would heal.

We were heading toward disaster. As the next couple weeks passed, I felt it my soul. Knew it even as a part of me desperately hoped we had conceived a child.

How had we gotten to this point? My relationship with Robert started off wonderfully. As I sat in the steam room the next morning, hoping the heat would melt my hurt, my mind drifted back down memory lane….

I rushed into the restaurant’s kitchen, about to pull my hair out. Seeing my fellow waitress, I sighed loudly. “Jane, I’m about to lose my mind. I just got another table. Can you take it for me?”

Jane, who was piling plates of food onto a large tray,
met my eyes briefly before she answered. “God, I wish I could, but I’m so friggin’ behind it’s not funny. Sorry, hon.”

Then, lowering her body to ease the giant tray onto her shoulder, she lost her balance. The tray tilted and plates slid onto the floor with a loud crash. Mortified, she burst into tears.

I couldn’t help her. I had to rush past her and collect the two plates of pasta that one of my tables was waiting on. I balanced them on my arm and hurried back to the busy restaurant.

I delivered the meals to the waiting couple, then turned and headed to the new table with the four older men.

Though I was flustered, I offered them a smile, hoping not to show how stressed out I was. All their eyes perked up when they saw me—a reaction I was used to because of my looks—but I pretended not to notice. Good looks certainly helped get better tips, but I didn’t believe they made me special. Maybe because men had fallen over my mother because of her looks, and I wanted a life nothing like hers.

“How’re you all doing this evening?” I asked as I fished my notepad from my apron pocket.

There was a chorus of “goods” and “fines.” And I noticed the lingering stare from one of the men at the table.

While I ignored him, I was surprisingly not offended the way I often was when other men ogled me.

He’s older,
I told myself.
Hardly a threat.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” I said. “I’m superbusy, and—”

“No problem.” This from the man who had given me the longer look. His attractive face wore a soft smile. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and I figured he was in his late fifties. Something about him reminded me of Harry Belafonte at that age. The shape of the face, the smile. The twinkle in his eyes.

“I could run through the list of drink specials,” I began, “but you don’t strike me as the margarita or frothy drink type.” They all chuckled. “What can I get for you? Beer? Whiskey?”

“A bottle of Glenlivet,” one of the men said. “We’re celebrating.”

I was ready to celebrate myself—a bottle of Glenlivet Scotch would add a huge amount to the bill, meaning a much larger tip for me. These men were well dressed. I was certain they knew how to tip well.

And they did. They left me a one-hundred-dollar bill.

With that bill came a note from the older gentleman who had clearly been interested. “I would love for you to call me,” the note read. And he left his phone number.

I didn’t call. But a week later, Robert showed up at the restaurant again, requesting my section. And he made it clear that he wanted to get to know me.

I guess because he was safe, I decided to give him a chance. He was gentle and persistent. Charming and romantic. Sending flowers and chocolates and notes to brighten my day. When he came to the restaurant and
sat in my section, we enjoyed an easy rapport. It was clear to me that his attraction wasn’t based on his desire to get me into bed.

And I fell for him. I thought we would have a story-book ending.

Eight years later, the story had somehow changed along the way. It had changed from a fairy tale to something else.

Something much darker.

“You’re running late, aren’t you?” Robert asked as I breezed into the kitchen. I hadn’t even seen him sitting at the breakfast counter. I thought he’d left for the club half an hour earlier.

“I thought you were at the club already.”

“I had a few phone calls to make so I came back.” Robert brought his mug to his mouth and sipped. “How come you’re not at the shop yet?”

“I promised Sharon I’d go with her to the obstetrician today.”

“I see. You’re a very good friend to her.”

“She’s got no one else right now,” I said as I made my way to the coffee machine. A fresh pot was brewed. “Her family rallied around her after Warren died, but they live all over the country and simply can’t be there for her as much as they’d like.” Robert already knew this. Why was I explaining my desire to be there for Sharon?

“She should have gone to live with her sister,” Robert commented.

“I’m sure her mom and Melanie will come closer
to her due date.” Sharon’s sister, Melanie, had invited her to move to Phoenix and live with her and her husband until the baby was born, but Sharon had declined. She didn’t want to leave her matrimonial home. Even though the house was large and empty, she still felt close to Warren there.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

I looked up as Olga, our housekeeper, came into the kitchen. “Good morning, Olga.”

“Would you like me to prepare some breakfast for you?” she asked.

Olga was German-born, and despite having lived in America for close to thirty years, she still spoke with a fairly thick accent. She’d been Robert’s housekeeper for fifteen years—while he’d still been married to wife number two.

“No, thank you.” I took my travel mug from the cupboard above. “I’m just going to have coffee and run.”

“Are you sure, ma’am?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“Okay, then.”

Olga crossed the kitchen and opened the dishwasher. I filled my travel mug.

“I just wonder if it’s wise to go to this appointment with her.”

Robert’s words had me turning to face him. “Why?”

“Because.” He glanced in Olga’s direction, but she was busy filling the dishwasher. Satisfied that she wouldn’t hear, he continued, “Because of our own inability to get pregnant.”

I nodded grimly. After the pole incident a couple weeks earlier, Robert and I had made love only one other time. He’d killed my desire for him. One day, I hoped I would get over the hurt his words had caused—because I still wanted to get pregnant.

Robert already had three grown children and four grandchildren, and knew firsthand the joy of being a parent. I wanted to experience that joy, too.

“Actually, I think that going with Sharon will be good for me. Seeing her happy makes me happy. And seeing the baby move inside her belly…I can’t wait. It’s such a miracle, I know I’ll feel only joy.” I lowered my voice. “Besides, who says I’m not pregnant right now?”

I did hope that what I’d said was true, but there was another reason for my words. I wanted a reaction out of Robert. Did he want a baby as much as I did? Or was I in this alone?

He raised an eyebrow, then sipped more coffee. “Perhaps you are.”

Perhaps you are…
No excitement. No yearning.

“I was thinking perhaps we could plan a trip to Paris,” Robert said.

“Now?”

“Why not? I know how much you love Paris.”

Paris won’t make me forget what you said to me.

“You know this isn’t a good time for me to get away,” I told him. “With all the graduations, and with Mother’s Day coming up, I’m superbusy.”

“Maybe in a few weeks, then.”

“We’ll see how it goes,” I said noncommittally.
Because as I looked at my husband, I thought:
Do I even want your baby? Maybe I can start my life with someone else, someone who adores me. Someone who wants what I want.

Maybe all my fantasies about that sexy stranger were a subconscious sign of something I hadn’t dared to put into words.

“I have to go,” I told Robert.

I didn’t bother to give him a kiss before I left the house.

I watched the ultrasound monitor in awe.

“It’s a baby.” I held a hand to my chest. “Look at the legs and arms moving about. It’s like she wants to get out and start ruling the world already.”

“It’s a he,” the ultrasound technician pointed out.

My eyes flew to Sharon’s. “A boy?”

She nodded, and her eyes welled with tears. “Warren would have been so happy.”

“He is happy,” I said softly. “He is.”

“Let’s just hope this little ruler waits another fifteen weeks before making an appearance,” the ultrasound technician continued.

“Oh, he will,” I said, as if willing it could make it true. “I’m going to make sure that baby stays inside until he’s good and ready to take on the world.”

That elicited a smile from Sharon. “Twenty-four weeks,” she said. “I’ve never made it this far before.”

Emotion hit me, instantly filling my eyes with tears. “This is the one. Warren’s gonna make sure of that.”

Sharon started to cry, but she was shedding happy
tears. As was I. I gripped her hand in support and we both smiled through our tears.

When the technician left the room, I said to Sharon, “I haven’t asked you, but seeing the baby moving around inside of you, it’s suddenly very real. Are you planning to have a natural birth, or are you going to schedule a C-section?”

“You mean a ‘too posh to push’ birth?”

“Is that what they call it?”

“Women opting for scheduled C-sections is a trend now. So yeah, there’s a name for. And no, I’m not planning a C-section. Not if I can help it. I’ll take the drugs. I’m no fool. But I’m going to try and have a vaginal birth, unless nature dictates otherwise.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Or not. Whatever you choose.”

Sharon smiled. “Now I have a question for you.” She paused. Gave me a long look. “Will you be there with me in the delivery room?”

“What? You want
me
there?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask…. Now seems like the perfect time.”

“You want me there?” I repeated, my eyes filling with tears again.

“I’ll have other family here, come the time. But I want you there. And I’m going to need a Lamaze coach.”

Giddy with joy, I started to laugh. “Definitely, Sharon. I’ll be there for you. Of course I will.”

I was honored, and touched.

As I got into my car in the parking lot, I was still in awe of what I’d witnessed. Seeing Sharon’s son moving
around was the most amazing thing. My own longing for a baby intensified.

I wanted to experience the joy Sharon felt. And like my dear friend, I knew that if I had to, I could raise a baby alone.

When I left the appointment, I decided to swing by my own doctor’s office. I never showed up without an appointment, but today I was desperate. If Dr. Cairns could squeeze me in, I would wait as long as it took.

An hour and a half later, just before her lunch break, she was able to see me.

I went into her office with hope, determined to find out from my doctor if there was anything special I could do to help me and my husband conceive.

When I left, I was devastated by a truth I’d never expected to learn.

One that changed everything.