“Looks like a snow storm,” Steve says, his eyes tracking me as I get ready to go somewhere—anywhere—without him.
“Don’t care,” I say, pulling a sweatshirt over my tank and checking my reflection in the mirror. My phone pings and I grab it.
Britanya:Hey Mom! You sure you don’t want to come to the bachelorette party?
Mom: I love you, but no. I don’t need to see all that.
Britanya: Haha okay. Lunch tomorrow ahead of mani-pedis, right?
Mom:Absolutely. See you tomorrow
Britanya:Love you!
I put the phone down and shove my feet back into my boots, grateful I’d thought long and hard about exactly what to pack for this trip. I probably thought too long about it, but that was a hard habit to break. Once I got pregnant, I’d overthought everything, especially since Steve wasn’t about to do a
