Three hours later, I stare down at the white plastic stick in my hand, laughing. I laugh and laugh and laugh, until eventually I start to cry.
Sobbing, I look up at my bathroom ceiling. “God, I’d just like you to know that I officially hate your guts. And don’t expect to hear from me ever again.”
I throw the stick in the trashcan and go into the living room to call my mother.
She’s always wanted to be a grandma.
My mother reacts to my news with her typical aplomb; after a long pause, she simply says, “Oh, sweetheart.”
Then, because it’s the universe’s new favorite thing to screw with me, my father picks up the other phone extension in their bedroom and demands, “What’s ‘oh sweetheart’? What’s wrong?”
“Hi Dad. How are you?” I stall, because he’s not going to react nearly as well as my
