The Promise Ring

Tonight we are lying in bed when you ask me if I’ve ever thought about having kids. You’ve finally caught me off guard: for once I’m not sure of the right answer. I go through my options. If I tell you I hate children, you’ll think of me as some sort of heartless spinster. No, worse. You’ll find someone who doesn’t hate kids. But if I tell you what I think you’d want to hear, I’m lying. Remember our first night together? When you made me promise to never lie to you? Remember how happy you looked when I slid that silver loop onto your finger. A promise ring. Remember how green your eyes were, how vibrantly every color in my room glowed? Remember how beautiful we were?1

I avoid the question all together and ask what you mean. You roll over to face me and smile angelically. You ask, didn’t you ever dream of being a mommy? Of course I did. Or at least I dreamt of pushing strollers and feeding plastic children. I never dreamt of two am feedings, of mood swings, of having to tell our baby why it has two mommies. Or trying to explain every little injustice in our world. Lying right to its face. 2

But instead I say it. Yeah, I did. You smile like you’ve just won a fight and whisper back, I hoped you’d feel like that. And as satisfying as it is, knowing I’ve found that “right answer,” I’m left worrying. We pretend to sleep for a while. Now it’s one in the morning. You roll over and say, let’s have a baby. I take your hand, soft and pale in the ambient light that shines through our fluttering curtains, and smile. 3

#4

Today we are sitting in the doctor’s office. He tells you, we’ve received the results of the fertility tests. You hold my hand so tight that I forgot to worry about the doctor’s response. I can feel my blood trying to pulse through the veins you’ve closed off with your grip as your ring presses into my skin. Finally he says it. I’m sorry. You are standing in front of a bright light. You have discovered words you never thought you’d hear. You are listening to this man talk authoritatively while you drink in his words. While you drink in my silence. While you drink in the unexpected horror of this moment. You relinquish your grip on my hand, allowing the blood to rush through my veins. Pins and needles. He stops talking for a moment to catch his breath. The fluorescent lights hum and you are so quiet that I can hear my own guilt, flashing on and off like a second heartbeat. You can’t even look at me.5

I know that tonight you’ll tell me your thoughts on adoption. You will read to me from the pamphlet the doctor gave you. You will sigh loudly and sit in my lap. I know that tonight I’ll give in.6

Because I promised you I’d make you happy. No, wait. Because I promised you I’d never lie. Because I promised myself. Because I promised me I’d never let The One go once I found her. Because on that same night I promised you the truth, I also promised to never hurt you. After that night, you were never scared again. 7

I often find myself wondering why I stepped into that jewelry store. With a pocket full of twenties and an overwhelming sense of finality swimming through my brain. What was I promising you? Promising you a life of happiness? Like you wanted. Or promising myself that for once, I’d stay? Like I needed.8

#9

Tonight we are lying in bed when you ask me how it feels. Knowing that right now, a child could be forming within me. For once I am honest when I tell you, I try not to think about it. Because you are smiling and rubbing my stomach. And that’s all I want to think about. This perfect little life we’ve carved for ourselves. With our perfect $15,000 child festering in my belly. And the perfectly curved shadow that your promise ring makes on the nightstand.10