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1
Hannah
A humid breeze blows in through the open window. It’s my only relief from the sweltering heat that’s settled like a haze in my apartment. The air literally feels heavy and wet on my skin, and I wipe at my forehead, unsurprised that my arm comes back sticky. It’s September, but there’s a heat wave passing through NYC this week, so I guess we’re all suffering en masse. But hopefully my baby’s doing okay and with a sigh, I stare down at my belly before lightly resting my hands on the not-so-small bulge.
Oh Christ, what a mess I’m in.
The child seems to hear and kicks me in response, making me let out a soft “oof!” I like to think of these little movements as the baby’s way of telling me that things will be fine, yet tears spring into my eyes as I mull over my situation.
After all, it wasn’t exactly part of my life plan to be single and pregnant at twenty-five. But here I am, alone in my apartment with a child growing in my tummy. Tears rise to my eyes, and an incredible loneliness seeps into my bones.
Ugh, it must be the stupid pregnancy hormones making me so emotional.
It could be, but somehow I know that that’s not all. The situation is scary because I’m a single mom in NYC with no family, very little money, and a somewhat high-risk pregnancy underway. As a social worker with Children’s Protective Services, I’ve seen some really tough situations in my line of work, so I know things could be worse. But still, life recently has just felt incredibly hard.
I sigh and continue to stare out the window. The heat settles on my skin like a heavy blanket, and I try to push my sticky hair out of my face. The tangled mess of curls is probably a bird’s nest right now, but I don’t care because I have bigger problems to say the least. Bills. A job. Childcare. No money. Did I mention bills?
I glance down toward the street a few stories below. My small, cramped apartment doesn’t have much going for it, but at least the people watching is good, even if that’s about all I can say for the place.
Then, my gaze shifts away from the window and toward the interior of the apartment. It’s a little grimy, but I’ve done my best with the space. The paint is chipping around the window ledges and the counters are stained yellow with age. The floors desperately need stripping, but at least they’re real wood and not ticky-tacky linoleum. Then again, maybe linoleum would be better because it’s more sanitary if you have a child? I have no idea.
Are you ready to be a mom, Hannah?
I look around, squinting because I don’t really want to know the answer to that question. Sure enough, there’s a frayed electrical outlet next to my second-hand dining table, and none of the windows have screens, so a child could probably easily plunge to their death from this high up. Even worse, I’m pretty sure I saw a pigeon building a nest on the fire escape, which means, you guessed it: bird droppings.
“Relax, Hannah,” I tell myself in a trembling voice as my heart begins to race. “You’ve still got time to figure this out.”
To be honest, ever since I found out I was pregnant, I’ve been repeating that mantra aloud to myself every day, and yet my panic seems to grow with each passing moment no matter what. Calm down, I tell myself again. You are an independent young woman. You can do this. Besides, you’re the only person this baby has, so you HAVE to make it work.
I turn to look out the window once more, deciding to save my rising panic about baby proofing for a different day. Things will be fine, I tell myself. Things will work out, you’ll see.
Suddenly, I jerk forward in my seat. Is that …? No, it can’t be, and I lean back, semi-relieved. A tall blond man continues down the street and then disappears into the subway station at the corner. His stature and complexion reminded me of the guy who got me pregnant, and I shake my head. It’s not his fault that he went back to Germany, and it’s not his fault that we got pregnant either. It’s just something that happened after our hook-up.
Still, I wonder what this child is going to look like. Will he be brunette like me, or blond like his father? Will she have my curves, or will she be lean and toned, like her dad? To be honest, I’m well into my second trimester so I could easily find out the gender, but I don’t want to know because it’s only going to make everything that much more real.
