I stood across the street from a Texas drug store, staring lazily at the glass doors that would lead me to fluorescent aisles. I was a few blocks from where my brother’s fiancé and the ladies attending her bachelorette party were thumbing through lingerie and hot pink sex toys. I sighed, hot and needing to pee. “Maybe I should just take a test so that I can enjoy drinking tonight,” I mused to my sister.
“Yeah,” she nodded.
Pregnancy test boasting 99.9% accuracy in my overstuffed purse, I rushed up the steps of the house we had rented for our weekend of fun. I pulled down my pants with fervor and ripped open the packaging of the $14 test. “Fourteen dollars,” I had moaned when I saw the price tag, reminding myself that I was clearly in no position to have a baby if I could barely stomach the idea of losing an extra fifteen bucks. My bright red toes pressed down onto the cold, clean tiles, and I placed the stick under my urine stream. Sweet relief. I glanced down, waiting to be relieved of my concern. A tiny, red, and maddeningly indifferent plus sign appeared almost immediately. I stared, my hands beginning to tremble. “Oh my god. Ohmygodohmygod,” I repeated out loud. Sharp, rapid sobs rose from deep within my gut, forced out along with streams of snot and mascara. I could not believe it, and yet, I knew it was true. Everything suddenly made sense. The exhaustion. Sore breasts. Dreams of babies and incarcerated parents.