Twenty-six. That's the number of pregnancy tests I took the following day when I called in to work after Collier left for the office. After three trips to three different drug stores to buy other brands, I'd ended up with twenty-six inaccurate sticks lying on our bathroom counter. Each arranged in neat rows and columns, and all screaming at me. I hurt for women who bought into the lies these companies propagated to hopeful mothers-to-be. There should be laws against faulty products.
I rubbed my temples and closed my eyes, not wanting to acknowledge what was before me. Ignorance was bliss, and I could lie to myself for ages...or at least nine months until the pains of labor started.
"f**k, f**k, fuck." In my haste to repeat a string of explicative words under my breath, I apparently tune
