Pulling my legs close, I balled myself up on the sofa in the living room and clutched the pregnancy test. A dim yellow light crept through the window, landing on Jack’s easel. I traced it to the street lamp across the pavement that was still illuminated. The early morning stillness was disturbed only by Jack’s incessant pacing. The rest of the world was sleeping.

“What do you want to do?” he asked, standing over me. He was shirtless, his arms folded across his bare chest. His jeans dangled, barely clinging to his protruding hip bones.

“What do you mean, exactly?” I asked, allowing my legs to fall and placing my bare feet on the cold hardwood floor.

He paused, squinting his eyes tight before speaking. “Grace, we’re so young. You’re still in university. You want to be a writer. I’m a painter.”

“So?” The word came out sharp and my head shot forward. I felt savagely protective.

“So, how are we going to support a baby right now?”

I knew what he was insinuating, and I resented him for it. I had no desire to be reasonable. “I hope you’re not implying what I think you’re implying.”

“It’s not a big deal. People get abortions all the time.”

“You fucking asshole.” I pushed myself off the couch, past Jack and into the kitchen. I grabbed a bottle of cleaner from below the sink and started spraying the counter.

The smell of bleach reminded me of the public swimming pool we used to frequent when I was a child. On days when my mother was too depressed to get out of bed, my father would dress us in our bathing suits and smear us with sunscreen. We’d walk the short distance to the pool, my father carrying Annabelle in one arm, a New Yorker tote bag filled with towels, books, and juice boxes in the other. Between dips in the water, we’d play a game of soccer. My father was the goalie, and the three of us would take turns trying to score.

Convinced my mother hated me, I’d stand outside her bedroom, trying to muster the courage to enter. After a few minutes, I’d push the creaky wooden door open. “Mother?”

The room was dark, a slit of light spilled through the curtain’s edge. My mother would be on her side, back to the door. “Mother? We’re going to the pool. Do you want to come?”

She’d moan, and without so much as looking at me, say, “No, doll, Mommy isn’t feeling well. Shut the door.”

As I pulled the door closed, I remained in place, listening to her groggily singing:

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are gray

You’ll never know dear, how much I love you

Please don’t take my sunshine away

Jack appeared, leaning against the doorway. “It’s the logical thing to do, baby.”

“The logical thing to do is to kill our child?” I took a cloth and began wiping in furious circles, my voice shaking. “You know my mother was twenty-one when she had William.”