by Kendra Whitfield
Having the baby was not an option. The blood pressure medication caused catastrophic birth defects. Three years in, young enough to reconsider considering children, had all of our lives to change the prescription. We loved with restrained abandon: Sunday afternoons after walking the dog, Thursdays between ER and Letterman. Once, after an Iron Chef Party, Slightly drunk on French 75s, Carried away by oysters and asparagus. He kissed my hair, spouted statistics, said spermicide is backup for breakage. We had no Plan B. He bought crackers and Gravol for the morning sickness, Drove two hours to the clinic, held my gaze while strangers voided the life we’d created. We removed a variable, didn’t factor the haunting. He never looked me in the eyes again. It took me five years to notice.
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