I paired the words “I’m pregnant” with frenetic jazz hands, a strangled and hysterical laugh, and two fat tears running down my cheeks. I sniffled, wiping the moisture away with shaking fingers.
Greg’s features, so inflexible and determined just moments ago, grew almost comically confused—as though I’d just announced I was a twelve-toed honey badger with a penchant for rose-scented drawer satchels. I continued to glare at him, watching the play of emotions wreak havoc behind his eyes as his mouth worked but no sound arrived.
At last he said, “I don’t understand.” I was fairly certain he wasn’t speaking to me, but rather was addressing the universe.
“When’s the last time you had your sperm count checked, Greg?”
He gaped.
I huffed another humorless laugh; I was shouting now, and I didn’t care one bit. “Of course. Of course you have autocratic sperm. Of course you have mandate-making semen. Because that’s who you are. You show up here, after being gone for months, and you make a giant mess of everything. You have no respect for my time, for what I do, for how hard I work. I may not be working sixteen-hour shifts on an oil rig, saving the world. I may be doing the “most mundane of tasks” as you call it. But guess what? I work twenty-four-hour shifts raising our children, managing the accounts, the household, cooking, cleaning, and loving you even though it’s unbearably lonely. Not just because you’re gone, but because when we’re together, you don’t see me as a full partner.”
“When did you find out?” Apparently, he was still stuck on the baby reveal. I couldn’t blame him. I was also still in shock.
“Yesterday on the phone with Liz, confirmed just this morning at Dr. Freeman’s office. And, by the way, thank you for drugging me with Ketamine in Nigeria. He now thinks I’m a recreational drug user.”
“You’re . . . welcome?” He seemed to have difficulty moving beyond the pregnancy news, so I gave him a moment to reflect, watched his handsome face as he watched me with an unfocused gaze, plainly prioritizing his cornucopia of questions.
Eventually, with wide and worried eyes, he settled on, “The baby is okay? Did I . . . did I—”
“Yes. The baby appears to be fine. The doctor said there shouldn’t be any adverse effects from the Ketamine, though he’s planning to run some additional tests.” I split my attention between him and my shawarma, suddenly no longer hungry for it.
Greg said nothing and the fire behind his eyes had mellowed. He watched me, like I was something new and volatile and wonderful, like he was considering how best to handle me. I could see he was excited by the idea of a new addition to our family and, strangely, his excitement both eased and irritated me.
Eased because I needed him to be happy about this. If he’d been upset, I would have lost my mind, gone into full ninja mode, and destroyed the apartment.
Irritated because he wasn’t the one who would be pregnant, deal with mood swings, weight gain, medical tests, back pain, labor, struggle through breastfeeding, and juggle Grace and Jack’s needs as well.
And lose myself a little more in the process. . .
I scoffed at his cautiously exuberant expression and posed his question back to him. “How about you? Do you care at all what I want? What I need?”
“What do you need, Fe?” he asked, his voice quiet and curious, bracing.
“I need a partner,” I blurted, swallowing a sob, my eyes still stinging with stubborn tears. “I meant what I said. I need you here. Alive. Active and involved and helping, every day. I need you to look for ways to help, not wait for me to make you a list. I need you to listen and not discount my point of view or contributions despite your feverish caveman need to keep me safe. I need you to clean the apartment, and pick up your goddamn socks, and stop making mindless messes—like we have magical cleaning fairies who orgasm every time they do the laundry.”
He cracked a rueful smile at the last bit, but quickly pressed his lips together.
Despite the just-spoken sarcasm and humor, my voice wobbled as I added earnestly and gently, “Let me remind you of some words a very wise man once said to me. ‘A relationship is made up of many burdens, and the two people within the relationship have different strengths and weaknesses, abilities and talents. Burdens are weightless, worlds change, and love endures when both people are contributing their maximum.’”
Greg set his jaw, his eyes narrowing, but I could tell his temper had lost its steam. “That guy sounds like a pretentious asshole.”
I pressed my lips together, partly to keep my chin from wobbling, and partly because I was fighting a smile.
Pulling him into my arms for a tight hug, because I needed to touch him—I needed his strength—I lifted my chin and whispered against his ear. “I’d like to amend that wisdom to include: burdens are weightless, worlds change, and love endures when both people are allowed to contribute their maximum.”