By the time we get to our apartment, my eyes are swollen and my cheeks are sticky with tears. Sam lets me out at the front so he can park the car. He won’t let me shell out the exorbitant fee for the parking garage below our building, so he spends half his time searching the neighborhood for open parking spots. He’ll drag himself out of bed at six in the morning on his day off to move his car to avoid getting a ticket. I had planned to insist on paying for the parking garage once the baby came, but that won’t be an issue anymore.

I feel a surge of resentment at Sam’s stubbornness about the parking garage as I trek up to our apartment all alone. I don’t want to face the open door to what would have been the baby’s room all alone. I catch a glimpse of the light brown wood of the crib and the yellow paint on the wall before I pull the door shut with a resounding snap.

My phone buzzes inside my purse. There’s no one I want to talk to right now, but I assume it’s Shelley, trying to say something comforting. I fish out the phone and see the text message filling the screen. It’s from none other than my favorite boss, Denise:

Sorry to hear about your situation. I assume I can cancel your family leave totaling 12 weeks? Also, please let me know ASAP if you will require a personal day tomorrow.

For God’s sake, couldn’t the woman let me grieve for one hour? Denise used to be the woman I respected most in the entire universe, but now I hate her. I hate Denise. No, “hate” isn’t a strong enough word for what I feel for her. “Loathe” or “abhor” don’t quite do it either. Someone needs to invent a new word to describe the way I feel right now about Denise Holt.

Except none of this is Denise’s fault. And an hour ago, she was no more than an annoyance in my life, instead of the object of my seething hatred. So maybe I should hold off on answering her text right now, because I can’t afford to tell off my boss. My job is all I have anymore.

I glance at my watch. How long does it take Sam to park a goddamn car?

The landline next to the couch starts ringing. I don’t even know why we have the damn thing, because all important calls come on our cell phones. All we get on the landline are telemarketers. Then again, I wouldn’t mind yelling at a telemarketer right now. It might make me feel better.