“I’ve had it,” he yelled. “For the last eleven goddamn years I’ve been paying the price for you. And I am done.”
I jumped off the porch and rode my bike home.
III.
Sarah’s mom cried a lot. Sarah’s mom drank a lot. Sarah’s mom said mean things to Sarah—a lot. Crying, she said, “Men are bastards and don’t you forget it.” Drunk, she said, “He blamed me . . . he wouldn’t even give me money for an abortion.” Drunk and crying, she said, “That man ru-ined my life.”
IV.
In ninth grade, Sarah got an abortion. She was Aaron’s girlfriend. They took the bus to the clinic. That’s all I know. It was none of my business.
V.
I strode into the store, chest puffed up.
Me—the young buck.
Me—capable of sowing the seed, and responsible enough to sacrifice.
Except, I really wasn’t all that confident. And it didn’t take long before I deflated into my-self. It started when I discovered that:
Imagine, if you will, a self-conscious dork trying to read the packages from a safe distance outside the aisle.
Before I saw my grandma’s neighbor walk in my direction—before I panicked and left the store empty-handed—I squinted to see which condom offered the most pleasure, which one of-fered the most “realistic” experience, which one brought me “closer” to my lover.
VI.
Sometimes I wonder, if I had been conceived three years later
—would I have been born?
Sometimes I wonder, if my parents had had the choice
—what would they have chosen?