My mother cried on her wedding day.
Not because she didn’t want to marry, but because it was the death of her current self at the time. I fear that feeling crept up on me much too soon as I observed the white and pink stick in my hand. Two lines.
I read the instructions again. Maybe a tap against the floor would do. Again, two lines. My legs feel numb as I rise from the cold toilet seat. I start to pant. The world blurs when I stare at my stomach, with a seed hidden in my intestines.
I quickly flush the stick down the drain. If I can’t see it, I won’t believe it. But what if it’s true? After a much needed release of sloppy acid from my dry throat, I wash my mouth and exit the bathroom.
The clock strikes 4 a.m. I flick the lights on, revealing my bakery’s kitchen. The refrigerators’ hum mixed with the smell of melted butter distracts me. I do everything to keep my mind from racing: preheat the ovens, clean the countertops, fill the sugar, simmer the flour, and start the dough mixer. I can hear my hands at work—the crunch of crusty bread and the swish of my rapid whisk.
Shortly after, my attendees clock in, and the bakery shop opens at last. Customers trickle in. Groups of friends chat, employees grab a treat before work. I finally have the guts and time window to notify my partner of my (or our) little concern. “I think I’m pregnant,” I type, and swiftly turn off my phone, not daring to see the reply.
Image Source: Catherine Lanctot
A scream is heard in the distance. I head to the cash register only to witness a kid cry his eyeballs out. His nose is red and his shirt coated with teardrops as he points at one of the bakery’s cookies. His mother shakes her head and tries to get the kid away from the display window, but the boy doesn’t listen. He sits on the floor and crosses his arms in defiance. The woman’s eyes look tired; countless years have been taken from her.
Still, she smiles.
The kid doesn’t quite understand her smile, and neither do I. Her eyebags signal she hasn’t slept in days. She’s exhausted. Where does she find the strength? Instinctively, I grab the cookie in the shape of a dinosaur and hand it to him. His face lights up, and he runs out of the shop giggling and shaking his hands. The mother thanks me. She urges her son to do the same; he does, with the biggest grin on his face.
The two leave and a smile is plastered on my face, yet it falters. I don’t know if I can picture myself with a kid holding my hand. I fear I’m too young to even be thinking about this. Children are so pure, so full of life, yet how will I stop their tears if something goes wrong? Can I even stop mine?
A knock on the back door pulls me out of my thoughts. I open it to reveal an old man with a wooden cane. He walks right in and greets the other employees with his wrinkled hands. He sits next to the counter and compliments my pastries—the different colors, textures. My father knows them all.
He built this business from scratch. Growing up I saw how he designed the layout, installed the ovens all on his own. He made me taste test the desserts which developed my sweet tooth. Baking is my passion, the reason for my existence. When I matured, he let me add my own twist to the menu. He knows that when I inherit the place, I won’t let him down.
I can only admire who he is, what he did, and how I can expand our family legacy into the future it deserves.
I just need time. His broken skin reminds me there’s not enough. It shrinks even further as Daniel calls me. I hang up. He must be at my apartment, waiting. I pack my belongings and exit the shop.
I know what to do. My shoes resonate against the asphalt as I rehearse the speech in my head over and over again reminiscing about our laughter and late-night talks. About the first time we met that rainy morning or skated on a frozen lake last winter. I love him, I really do. But I need to say that this is not what I want. It’s too soon.
And when I see him in front of the apartment… my heart drops. It falls deep into a house on fire as I witness the act of him getting on one knee. He holds a velvet-lined box. His hands are kind, firm.
There are no words, only lingering eyes. His look is expectant; mine scream caution. He explains he bought the ring months ago because he can only imagine a family with me. I am “the one.” Is this an insult or a compliment?
I stand frozen, my feet glued to the ground. He takes it as a good sign. Rants about how we will raise the kid together, and that I no longer need to worry about the demanding bakery. That’s where I snap. “Can I do both?” I ask.
He takes a pause. “Why would you want that?” he replies.
My body takes a step back, but he grabs my arm, pulling me forward. His grip is fierce, his fingers burning into my skin to the point the blood flowing through bawls for help.
I can imagine the wedding now. Everyone around us would celebrate the happy couple, yet I would only be able to stare at the cake. It would be this chocolate glaze dessert made by someone whose dreams haven’t been shoved down.
Daniel would expect me to cut the cake, to pierce my current self.
I would want to take that shiny knife and pierce him.
His body would crumple along with the lies of who a woman should be, and I, I would be free.
Featured Image Source: Catherine Lanctot
