“Not just one mistake,” Gina said. She gave me a pointed look. “And that doesn’t count the times you didn’t get caught.”
My cheeks flamed, and I couldn’t lift my eyes to hers. “I love them so much,” I said, unsure of how I could prove this to the woman who held the fate of my girls in her hands. I could tell her how much I knew about them—how Brooke slept with one corner of her “soft side” stuck in her ear; how she giggled when I burped my ABCs, and how she sang “Row, Row, Row Your Goat,” but I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was wrong. I could tell her how Natalie smiled when I kissed her belly, how she rolled over for the first time when she was only three months old and then started to cry, she was so scared by what she’d just done. I longed to show Gina that despite all I’d done wrong, there were at least a few things as a mother I’d done right.
“I know you do,” Gina said, gently. “But love isn’t enough to be a good parent. There’s so much more to it than that.”
It was the kindness in her voice that broke me—I realized she wasn’t judging me, she was only pointing out the situation for what it was. I let loose a low, keening cry from somewhere deep in my belly. The same two sentences from the previous night played on a constant track inside my head: I can’t do this anymore . . . I don’t want to be here.
“It’s so hard!” I sputtered. “I love them, but it’s so hard.”
I leaned forward, face in my hands, and began to rock back and forth in tiny, measured movements. I thought about my mother, the look on her face when I told her I was pregnant with Brooke and I refused to do as she said and get an abortion. I thought about how her face held that same look when I informed her I was not only keeping my baby but dropping out of school and moving in with Michael, my eighteen-year-old boyfriend, who had his own apartment and a job at Radio Shack.
“You will not,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You moved in with Dad when you were seventeen,” I said, thinking this fact more than justified my decision. My parents had met their senior year of high school, and when my mom discovered she was pregnant with me, they got married. He’d left us twelve years later, becoming someone I heard from maybe once or twice a year, then eventually, not at all, but I was certain that Michael and I loved each other too much to share that same fate.
“And look how well that worked out,” she said. Her eyes, the same color as mine, flashed. “I want something better for you, Jenny. Something more than I had.”
“I will have something better,” I assured her. “I’m just going to have it with Michael. We’re not getting married right away. We’re going to take it slow.”
“Moving in with him and having a baby is not taking it slow.” She shook her head and pressed her lips together before speaking again. “What kind of job do you think you can get without a diploma?”
“I don’t have to work,” I said. “Michael will take care of me.”
“Like your father took care of us?” she shot back. “Trust me, you’ll regret this. Even under the best of circumstances, being a mother is harder than it looks.”
I hadn’t cried then, the moment she told me if I left, I wouldn’t be welcome back. I was so sure of myself, positive I was making the best choice for me and my baby. But now, sitting in the police station in a small room with Gina, I cried harder than I had in years. I cried because I’d been alone for so long. I cried because Michael had kicked us out when Brooke was only nine months old, telling me he never wanted to see either of us again. I cried because even knowing how hard it was raising Brooke on my own, I let myself get pregnant with Natalie. I cried because no matter how much I adored my babies, I was doing a shitty job taking care of them.
Mostly, though, I cried because my mother had been right.
“I know it’s hard, honey,” Gina said. She stood up and came around the table to put an arm around my shoulders. “It’s the hardest job in the world.”
I let her hug me and smooth my hair and rub circles on my back. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had held me like that. It was always me, holding Brooke or Natalie. Or both of them at once. They were constantly on me, clinging to me, using my body for food or comfort, as though it was their property and not mine. And even though I was worried about them, even though I knew Brooke must be in full-on panic mode by now, surrounded by strangers, wondering why her mommy never came back like she’d promised she would, part of me was grateful to have a few hours where I wasn’t responsible for feeding, washing, clothing, and entertaining them. I felt—right along with my guilt, terror, and shame—a tiny sliver of relief.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said, sniffling as I pulled away from Gina’s touch. I looked up at her, distressed. “I just want what’s best for them.”
Gina squatted down next to me, staring me straight in the eye. “I believe you, Jennifer. I really do. I can hear how much you love them in your voice.”