You directed me to stand against the kitchen counter, facing you. You seemed to imply this was foreplay. I was so excited that you were taking an interest, that you were going to initiate, without the use of subtle suggestion or hesitation, a sexual interaction. I stood there aroused with anticipation. You smiled at me with your big, round eyes and said, “I’m pregnant.” Your words hit me like a blow to the face. “Six weeks…I’ve already talked to Daddy.” I began attempting to pinpoint the time of conception. It had to have been the time you stopped taking your birth-control, but failed to tell me. I said, “You’re pregnant?” You continued to smile and said, with a knowing tone and half roll of the eyes, “Yeah”. I apologized, “I’m just a little out of it.” expecting you would blame my less than enthusiastic response on the fact that I had just woken up. This would be it for me. I would stop living for myself, doing things as I felt they should be done. I would find a job that paid enough to support a family. It didn’t matter how I felt about the job or how the job made me feel about myself. This was no-longer my life. You would raise the child in your image. What room would there be for my image in him or her?

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