In town

My mother doesn’t come home for three days. I don’t mind, and it’s not as if it hasn’t happened before. I need time to think, come to terms with the situation, decide what to do and make a plan.

And when she does come, it’s the same old story: “Baby, I’m sorry I didn’t contact you but – great news! I’ve met a new guy. He is so nice. Older; responsible. I feel like this may be the one. God knows, I need a man to help me get out of this poverty trap, provide more for you. Perhaps he can help us with this … disaster.”

And in a second she is weeping again. “I’m sorry, but every time I think about what you told me, I just fall to bits. I can’t believe it! I so wanted you to be different, to make it out of here.”

“That’s great about a new man, Ma,” I say, unsurprised, and manage an encouraging smile. My mother is a good-looking woman and, when she is not drunk, she is a fun character, attractive to guys. Of course, when she is drunk she is mean and embarrassing.

The three days have given me plenty of time to realise that she is going to be no help at all. That in fact I am the adult in this house, not her. It has been that way since I was about 10. And that it is up to me to make my own choices about this. So I tell her my plan.

“Anyhow, don’t worry too much about needing him to look after me. I have figured out what I am going to do. And it is very important that you don’t tell anyone – anyone at all! – that I am pregnant. I don’t want to be judged and gossiped about. We have enough gossip about us already. I will be able to hide the pregnancy until the holidays, and then I am going to deliver in the hospital across town and give the baby up for adoption.”

Now I have her full attention. She looks at me, her eyes wide.

“The kid will go to some lovely family that can afford to have it and that really wants it. It’s a win win win win situation – for the baby and for me and for you and for the new family. But not a word outside this room!” I say.

I have to admit, part of the reason that I don’t want anyone to know about this, is that I’m ashamed. I’ve always been the biggest big-mouth, criticising and mocking girls getting pregnant at school. It would be humiliating to admit it’s happened to me.

“Adoption!” Ma responds, shocked. “But we … er …  people like us … don’t give up babies … Well, we didn’t used to. And I suppose, when you put it like that … I guess only a couple who are crazy for a kid would get one by adopting. So it means, like … the problem will just be solved. Disappear. Poof! Like magic?”

“Yep – pretty much,” I say, beaming encouragingly, and hoping she won’t bring up how I might regret it or something. Because I won’t. 100%, that is how I feel right now. To me this is a disaster and it would be cool for the disaster to be turned into something nice for someone else.

I can already picture the family that will be bringing up my child as theirs. They’ll have a house with a garden in a good suburb, and the kid will have a big, sunny room and loads of toys. They’ll hold kiddie parties with dress-up and party packs and a cartoon movie theme cake. The kid will go to a nice school up the road.

So, for now, I have to keep healthy, but put on as little weight as possible. Meanwhile I’ll start complaining about getting fat to my friends. That won’t be an issue; a lot of us teenage girls are already fat –  or even obese –  in school. No shortage of cheap junk food around here! No-one will think it strange or notice anything. I mean, several girls have gone off to have babies before we’ve even realised they are pregnant.

Then, a couple months before I’m due, I’ll check in at the clinic and let them know what I want to do: find out about the process of giving up the baby for adoption.

 ***

Tell us: What do you think about the girl giving up the baby for adoption?