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Bored out of my mind, I get out of bed and take the half-melted ice packs with me to dump in the kitchen sink. The apartment’s messier than usual, so I take the opportunity to help A-Ma with the cleaning. It’s mind-numbing, easy work that helps me zone out. Doing the dishes, finishing a load of laundry, and dusting every surface I can find gives my brain a much needed break.
I pick up A-Ma’s Swiffer duster and venture out into the hall. Several picture frames hang crooked on nails, a thin layer of dust covering the upper rims of the frames. I glance at the pictures, admiring them for the first time in a long while.
The color’s faded, and some of the corners are crumpled. I smile fondly at the picture of A-Ma and me on my first day of ballet class. I’m tiny in the picture, smiling up at the camera with a toothy grin. My hair’s up so tight that it looks uncomfortable, and the pink tutu I’m wearing is much too large for my small frame.
What strikes me the most is A-Ma. She looks so much younger. She stands straighter, smiles brighter. Her hair isn’t streaked with white and gray. There are a few wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and upon her forehead, but they’re not as severe and deep as they are now. She looks youthful and bright, an entirely different person.
It’s true that A-Ma brought me up by herself, but I’m not naïve enough to believe that it was easy for her. I’ve seen her at work. I’ve waited up for her late at night to come home, and I’ve been woken up to her leaving early. She made sure I could want for nothing, but at what price? Her youth, her freedom.
Her dreams.
A-Ma once told me she wanted to be a writer, some famous author whose stories always hit number one on the charts. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her sit down with a pen.
My nose plugs up. My eyes sting with the threat of tears.
Stupid hormones.
I sniffle and wipe at my eyes with the backs of my hands, but not before I hear the front door of the apartment unlocking. I’m in plain view of A-Ma from the doorway. When she sees me, she immediately throws her bags down on the nearest chair and rushes over.
“What happen?”
I’m too choked up to get the words out. I don’t even know what I want to say. I want to scream that I’m stressed out, that I’m tired, that I’m hungry and achy all over. I want to tell A-Ma about the baby, about me and Nate, about the awful things Mrs. Winthrop said to me the morning she caught us together.
But I know my mother. She’s protective to a fault. I’m scared that if I tell her the truth, she’ll most likely storm the Winthrop residence and give Mrs. Winthrop a piece of her mind. If she does that, if she slights Mrs. Winthrop in any way, what will happen to me and my career? Mrs. Winthrop’s holding all the cards, and I don’t even know how to play.
A-Ma takes my hand and gently guides me to the couch. She has me sit before fetching me a glass of water from the kitchen. When she returns, she sits next to me and rubs small circles into my back, patting every now and then in an attempt to soothe.
It doesn’t work. I can’t stop crying. I sob so hard that I can’t catch my breath.
“Calm down,” she tells me. “Calm down. Tell me what wrong.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue. But doubt holds me back.
If I tell her, will she be ashamed?
I owe A-Ma everything. I’ve only gotten this far, accomplished what I have because of the sacrifices she’s made. Will she be disappointed to know that her only daughter might have to give up to care for a child of her own?
A-Ma watches me, nothing but warmth and patience in her eyes. I think for a second about saying nothing, about dealing with this responsibility on my own. Maybe I can take care of everything quietly. There’s no need to trouble her more than I already have.
But the heavy burden is crushing. I can’t hold it back any longer.
“A-Ma?”
“Yes?”
I bite my bottom lip. I suck in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.
Just tell her.
“I’m pregnant.”
A-Ma doesn’t react. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t do anything. It’s honestly worse than if she burst out in anger. If she’s at least screaming, I know she’ll wear down eventually. But this? I don’t know how to handle her stillness.
It’s scary.
“The father?” she asks softly, voice barely above a whisper.
“Nate.”
She tilts her head, presses her lips into a thin line. “Nate,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
“He knows?”
I shake my head weakly. “I haven’t told him yet. I found out at the hospital.”
