“Oh my goodness, are you expecting again?” she squealed with delight,
ambushing me outside my car.

“Yes, yes I am,” I reply softly
(please don’t ask me anything else)

“Well what are you having?!” she gushes excitedly.
(oh God, here we go)

“We’re going to wait to find out,” I lie through my teeth
(we’re more interested to see if this baby comes out breathing, and I also don’t need you trying to make anything redemptive out of his/her gender)

“Well either one is a blessing!” she informs me.
(I know, shithead, can we stop talking about this now)

“And how far along are you?” she keeps babbling.
(Jesus, I didn’t realize it was so far from the parking lot to the church door)

“About halfway there,” I offer halfheartedly.

“And how far along were you when the other one died?” she asks casually.
(HOLY CHRIST did she seriously just ask that?)

Regaining my composure, I respond coolly, “My daughter, Tinsley, died at 32 weeks.”

“Oh goodness, that is far along!” she croaks.
“I can’t remember when I lost mine, it was so many years ago.”
(I can you old bag — you told me last December you had a miscarriage at 8 weeks so you understood what I was going through, and I wanted to punch you in the face then and maybe if I had we wouldn’t be talking right now)

Silence, grimace.

“Well, everything happens for a reason, sweetie,” she concludes cheerfully.
“Even if we don’t understand God’s plan, it all happens for a reason.”
(You’re a fucking idiot)

“Well enjoy the rest of your pregnancy and the service!” she says.

“Yes, same to you,” I squeak out.
(you well-intentioned whore, you’ve already ruined the service for me)

Sometimes the disparity between the things I say
vs the things I think
splits me in two, but not today.

Today, it just pissed me off.

And I think God was pissed off, too.