Your dad and I fought for the next two months, while I sang more and played less and left frustrated after every gig, mad at myself and mad at the world. We fought about how much my hand hurt. (“It’s excruciating,” I said. “It can’t be that bad,” he said.) We fought about the stupid tambourine. (“I hate it,” I said. “Singers play them all the time,” he said.) We fought about whether I was a singer at all. (“I’m a keyboard player,” I said. “Who can’t play the keys.” “You have a beautiful voice,” he said. “Just sing with me.”)

We fought about other things, too. About the fact that he was graduating that May, and I wasn’t. (“Just quit school,” he said. “Come with me on the road.” “You have a degree,” I said. “I want one, too.”)

And then one night, at the end of finals week, we fought about you. (“You know, I really was pregnant,” I said. “I could feel it.” “That’s bullshit,” he said. “No one can feel that so early.” But I could. I did. I knew it was you in there.) We were both high. We’d been fighting about other things first. We were frustrated with each other. With the world. With the hand we’d been dealt and were trying to play out, but we both thought we should throw different cards on the table. I hadn’t planned for you, I hadn’t wanted you, but as I found myself upset with your dad about so many things, I discovered that part of what I’d been upset with him about all these months was the way he’d denied your existence. Created a world in which I couldn’t talk about you, think about you, come to terms with my own guilt, not just for my stupid actions but for what was in my heart—what was in his heart, too. And perhaps, though I didn’t realize it until just now, I was angry at him for us getting pregnant at all.

I wouldn’t look at him.

“Maybe this isn’t going to work,” he said, finally. His voice was flat. It felt like we had reached the end. There was a cliff, and we had to either hold hands and jump and trust that together we could make it to the other side, or each find our own way down alone.