“I don’t know what I want to do,” I said to her. I’d just digested the reality of the kid growing inside of me. My brain hadn’t yet moved on to the next step, which was keeping it, abortion, adoption. My life was forever changed, yes, but I wasn’t yet ready for the choose-your-own-adventure portion of post-conception reality.

“We don’t need a decision right now, but we’ll need one soonish, and honestly, I think we should talk this over with Mormor, too. We’re moving into her house, she loves you, it’s not like she hasn’t walked this walk with yours truly before.”

“Yeah, of course. Yeah. She’s going to be a jerk about it, though.”

“Well, of course she is, but she wouldn’t be Mormor if she wasn’t a jerk.”

Mom gave me a pained, tight smile, the kind that suggested she had gas pains, and stepped away from my side. “We ready for the doctor?” she asked, her hand already extending for the metal door handle.

No.

“Sure,” I said, feeling like I was going to be sick, and it had nothing to do with eggs, or the smell of cleaning chemicals, and everything to do with what I’d just learned and its myriad complications.

Mormor’s house was one of those big New England farmhouses: two stories, gray with white shutters, a wraparound porch she’d decorated with flourishing window boxes, hanging plants spaced out between the second story supports, and too much wicker furniture. Mormor loved wicker. It was an essential part of her aesthetic.

Mom didn’t call to announce us, because if she had, Mormor would have insisted Mom tell her why we were showing up on a Thursday when Mom should have been at work. She’d have been relentless, asked a thousand questions Mom would have had to sidestep or ignore, and then there would have been yelling. Mormor, as previously stated, was not a subtle creature, and when she latched on to something, she was about as delicate as a rabid wolverine.

So we decided to spring it on her.

We parked Mom’s ancient black Jeep in the driveway, my finger toying with the edges of the Band-Aid from my blood draw. I don’t know why the nurse chose a Toy Story bandage for a teenager, but it was at odds with the thoughts swirling about in my head, which were, essentially, that you really weren’t a kid anymore when you got pregnant. You were an adult, or at least an adult in comparison to the little person you were supposed to spew into the world nine months later.

And what kind of an adult wore a Toy Story Band-Aid?

This one. Me.

My kid is screwed.