My name’s Emma. I’m 23. I ring up groceries five evenings a week at the supermarket, and I’m building a life one shift at a time.
I folded it as if it were made of silk.
On the fridge, our little budget notebook sat pinned under a magnet, my sonogram taped right beside it. Jake’s handwriting filled the left column. Mine filled the right.
I heard my boyfriend come out of the bedroom before I saw him.
« You’re supposed to be resting, » Jake said, dropping his study binder on the counter.
« I am resting. Folding counts as resting. »
I heard my boyfriend come out.
« Folding is not resting, Em. »
Continue on the next page:
