He was a smooth talker, that’s what my friend said. A smooth, not to be trusted, talker. My judgement was skewed within his deep, hazel eyes. Maybe she was wrong.
That was seven months, three days and a four hours ago. Where is he now? I don’t know and I really don’t care. All I care about is the thought of being a mother. I’m scared, not just because I’m verging on forty.
I’ve read all the things that can go wrong on the internet. My baby could have downs, heart defects or any numerous conditions I have yet to search for. She is kind, the nurse.
She gels my stomach, and the smooth liquid reveals a grey and white, blurry picture. It’s tiny little heartbeat is like surround sound in the room. In that moment I didn’t care about the smooth talking man, who got me here.
It is like some cute, little alien inside my stomach.
In a month’s time I will be a mother and they will rely on me completely. I may not rely on the father, but this little person will always have me to rely on.
Writer Ravenclaw 