Megan Kathleen Hart
I stand at the counter, blinking at the bright fluorescent overhead lights. The white cupboards; the fridge, still decorated with grainy gray and white ultrasound photos; ceramic mugs ringed with brown sticky remnants of morning coffee, startlingly familiar, strangely unaffected. I wonder how so much could have changed in my world in that afternoon, when everything is exactly the same.
“Holy crap your feet are tiny, Mom!” he bellowed like a sultan, lording it over her, just like a man. There was a time he’ll never remember and she’ll never forget when his whole hand fit in her mouth, when his whole body fit inside of hers, when she ate jalapeños and to her horror at her breast, his tiny mouth burned.
The blueberry pound cake. Mel’s favorite. She could bake it for her again, another day. She might even tell Melanie what she’s been telling them all. Enjoy every moment of motherhood.
Michelle Ross Kim Magowan
“I disagree to disagree!” That was almost his parting line. The box he’d checked, filing for divorce, was “Irreconcilable differences.”
Before she goes, she will make a list. Two lists, actually. The first list, to help her keep her courage, will be a list of reasons that they will be better off without her. This list has lived in her head for a long time, although some days it speaks more loudly than others.
Rachel Mans McKenny
Ben wiggled himself free of his uterine hotel, evicted by a stream of contraction-causing drugs. So much for the “he’ll come when he’s ready” wisdom from my mother. Instead, “he’ll come by suchandsuch a date or we’ll drag him out,” sayeth the doctor.
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