#267 September 24.

#267 September 24.

He sat up and looked out the window. “I have to leave you. I want a
divorce,” he said.
“Not now,” I said. “We can talk about what’s upsetting you when we get
home from the doctor, but I’m really excited about the ultrasound. Aren’t
you excited?”

He looked more sick than excited. One of my pregnancy books talked about
that, men getting cold feet at the last minute. It said that almost all
of them turn out to be fine fathers and they just need a little reassurance.


“I need a divorce. We should have never gotten married.”

I had thought that off and on during the ten years that we’d been married,
but in a strange way it didn’t seem important to me. I had told a younger
friend that week that neither of us had made the best choice, but we’d
simply bonded to each other and now it was our life.

“It’s a bit late for that, after ten years when I’m seven months pregnant,
don’t you think?”
“Yes, it is. I’m sorry. I should have told you years ago when I first
figured it out.”


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