When I found out I was pregnant with Diego, I’m ashamed to say that I was devastated. I’d only recently started to face the reality that the life I had was not the dream I’d envisaged as a teenage girl. Not even close. I had started to realise that I was lumbered with a liability of a husband. Not a cute, slightly useless but good-hearted one though. Oh no. I was lumbered with a fucking monstrosity, and the thought of bringing up another child with him as the father was almost too much to bear.

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Don’t get me wrong, I love my son. I love him dearly and would do anything for him; he means the world to me. But at the time, we were in no position to bring another child into the world, we had very little money and I was the only one with a steady income. I’d grown weary of his assurances that his next big plan was going to be the one to change everything, to give us financial stability, to bring us comfort and happiness.

 

I’d already started practising lines to broach the topic of divorce. Every night I’d go over and over them in my head, building up the courage to find a good moment to say them, but I never did. I either froze with fear or was swiftly dismissed when I said that we needed to talk about something important.

 

To avoid physical intimacy, I’d go to bed as soon as I’d put the kids to bed and be asleep or feign sleep when he came home. On the rare occasion that he was in, I’d invite a friend round so that I could stay up talking with them. He didn’t like me having friends around. He didn’t like me having friends full stop. But in the preceding year or so, since a reunion with many of my oldest and dearest at a friend’s 40th birthday party, I’d vowed to keep them close. And on hearing my tales of woe, they’d vowed to keep me safe.

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When one or more of them did come round, their presence at home would irritate him and he would eventually take himself off to the bedroom to watch TV. Much later on in the evening, to be sure it was safe to go in, I would creep past the door and listen out for the sound of his snoring. A rattle from within would be my signal to dispatch whichever friend had come round to provide protection, then sneak in. I even kept a separate blanket at the end of the bed so that I didn’t always have to get under the covers.

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But from time to time, inevitably, I gave in to his constant demands for sex, like the time I had a bladder infection and didn’t have the energy to refuse his persistent advances. He had been complaining angrily for weeks that I was denying him his right as a husband, that I was constantly looking for excuses. He was also being short with the kids, shouting at them, refusing to spend any time with them when they asked for his attention or to play, and I figured that letting him have his way would be a fair compromise if it ultimately benefited the children. 

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Now, although I was taking the contraceptive pill, I’d been advised by the doctor that because of the medication I was taking for the bladder infection, I should take additional contraceptive precautions if I was sexually active. I had hoped not to be, but this particular night I was very tired, the kids had been difficult and I figured I just needed to grimace and bear it for the good of everyone, so I didn’t think about contraception and was just glad to get it over with. Afterwards, he complained that I wasn’t making the effort and put it to me that there were plenty of women who would gladly invite him into their beds if his advances weren’t welcome in this one. Had I had the slightest bit of energy, I’d have mustered the strength to begin my divorce speech. As it was, all I could do was roll over and sleep.

 

I realised I was pregnant about six weeks later, after a number of days getting severely bloated every time I ate something. Despite the pain it caused, I was still craving food and having trouble convincing myself to turn to healthier ways, to regulate the frequency of my eating and the content of my diet. One thing I couldn’t get enough of was strawberry cheesecake. Why I didn’t join the dots together sooner is beyond me. It was something I’d craved during my pregnancy with Stephanie. It had to be a particular brand and I had to have it at a very particular temperature. When I was pregnant with Stephanie, it used to be the the one thing I insisted Richie went to fetch for me when he said he was nipping out, and he always obliged. You see, there was an unspoken agreement at this point that going out to get it for me and bringing it back was his ticket to then be able to go out and do whatever it was he did of an evening. I had started buying them again as part of a weekly shop, but never enough to keep me satisfied. When I started up the trend again of asking him to get them, it clearly registered in his head that this was a ticket out for the evening, though he too had failed to see the significance.

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While at work one Monday towards the end of April, eating heartily from a lunch buffet that work had put on because we had some distinguished guests in the office, I remember simultaneously vowing to change my ways while being overcome by intense dizziness. I held on to the table I was standing next to and shuffled to a chair and sat down while a concerned colleague crouched down by my chair, took my hand and told me that the colour from my face had drained completely.

 

“Stay there,” she gently demanded, and moved swiftly to the nearby kitchen, emerging a few seconds later with a glass of water. “I’ve got some vitamin C in my bag if you want some?”

 

I shook my head and tried to take a few breaths to calm down, wondering what on earth was wrong with me.

 

“What happened there?” She asked when I finally steadied. “You’re not pregnant are you?” she teased.

 

Oh. Fuck. No! My mind flashed back to the doctor’s surgery and the warning about protection and then the horror of having sex with him while I was feeling so unwell. It couldn’t be, could it?

 

My boss told me to get myself home. In fact, he offered to call a cab, but I preferred not to have the fuss. Once I felt strong enough, I packed my things and headed out. I stopped at the Boots across the road from the office and bought three pregnancy tests. I needed to be sure. From there I caught the bus home and, although the traffic was much clearer in the mid-afternoon, the journey seemed to take an age, crawling from stop to stop, prolonging my agony and further feeding my anxiety.

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*

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I did the test again and again and again, but still it came up positive. I was distraught. How could we bring another child into the world? It felt utterly irresponsible. I was dreading telling friends because I knew they’d be thinking the same as me. As soon as the idea of an abortion crossed my mind, my Catholic guilt kicked in and dispatched the thought from my mind. Reluctantly conceding that we had a new family member on the way, I cautiously divulged the news to Richie. 

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He was delighted!

 

Delighted with himself, I should add. There was a disconcerting lack of talk about me, about how I was feeling and what he would do to support me. He was just happy with himself, so much so that he called up a couple of friends to tell them the news and headed off out to celebrate. 

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And there I was, alone. 

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Pregnant, unhappy and alone.

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