The disposable diaper was easy. The cloth diaper—not so much. After the third time I stabbed my bag, I was convinced Cass would look like a busted piñata within a week of being born. Amanda and Marie assured me it was okay, to try again—and I managed eventually, but it’s odd to know you can do advanced placement calculus but not baseline baby stuff like diapering your pretend flour kid. Even with Amanda’s help, my diaper looked lopsided and weird.

“It gets so much easier with practice,” she assured me.

Maybe that was true, but did it get easier before or after I and my child lost a quart of blood to the diaper-pin gods?

We took a break for our bagged lunches and then we did what was, essentially, a group therapy session talking about the various challenges each of us faced with our pregnancies. It was...eye opening. One of the girls, Maria, a Latina from a Boston neighborhood, was already working two jobs on top of school to try to save money for her and her baby. One of the Hannahs? Her baby’s father was a friend of her father’s—a married man—and she hadn’t told anybody because she was afraid to. And Erika was contending with a man who had other children with another girl—something she hadn’t found out about until she’d gotten pregnant herself.

When it came time for me to talk, I didn’t feel included, like Mrs. Wong or my mother had so desperately hoped I would joining this group of fellow preggos. I felt ridiculous because my story was so banal.

“I had a bad breakup so I got drunk and screwed a guy at a party,” I said. “It was dumb. I should have used a condom. I’m lucky to live with my mom and grandma who are supporting me so I can finish school.”

It wasn’t a contest of tragedies, and I realized that, but the thing I’d built up in my head as earth shattering and catastrophic...was still huge, but I definitely had it easier than some, too. The perspective was good, I supposed, but also uncomfortable.

People were quiet around me, either expecting me to talk more or for Amanda or Marie to speak. It probably wasn’t a very long silence, but it felt like forever as I fussed with the strings on my hoodie and stared at the floor. The circle had lots to say with the previous three girls, but not so much for me. It was Wei, the Chinese girl with the long-sleeved pink T-shirt and almost polite micro–baby belly, who saved me from melting in mortification.

“My boyfriend and I thought you couldn’t get pregnant if you pulled out,” she admitted, shyly. “So, if you’re dumb, so am I. I’m going to be living at home, too.”