“So…” she paused. Right, here it comes. The $64,000 question. I braced myself to be annoyed.

“So… I really don’t see what the big deal is,” she remarked casually. “I mean, you’re old enough, don’t you think? Everyone should stop freaking out.”

Erm … excuse me? What was that? I couldn’t believe my ears. I’d always wanted the chance to use the word incredulous in a sentence (even in my own head) – and here it was. Had to stop walking, in case I tripped over my chin as it hit the floor. Was she mad? Was she being sarcastic? Even worse, was she trying to Put Me At Ease?

As excruciating as it was, she probably was trying to make me feel better. And it worked, after a while. She stayed with me (having no young sailors to bully just then) and chatted idly about all the young mothers she’d known. No one tragic, just ordinary girls like me.

“So, you’re keeping the baby?” she asked. I nodded.

“Yes I am.” To be honest this was news to me. She’d caught me off guard and got me to say what I really wanted without trying to figure out how it would sound. Even so, I said it quietly, waiting for the torrent of “yes, buts…” that would come. There weren’t any. She just nodded: of course I was keeping the baby. As if it was a silly question really.

“That’s good. You’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

Later, I sat back on the sticky leather chair opposite the doctor. As threatened, she spoke at length about “My Options”. There was a firm emphasis on what a good idea adoption was, as it would just not be possible for me to be a mother at my age. I just Wasn’t Ready, she informed me gloomily. I listened, but I’d been through all of this already on my own. For days now, this was all I’d been thinking about. I’d already considered all the usual options, swinging wildly from one harebrained scheme to the next.

I listened to her predicting my future: a wasted life of resentment and waitressing, head lice, ringworm and Child Welfare visits… And I thought I was a drama queen? I noticed a certain juvenile defiance creep into my attitude and posture. Arms folded across my chest, eyes downcast, lip curled, proving the doctor right with every sulky roll of my eyes. And pissing her off, too. I was exactly as immature and stupid as she’d thought. Fortunately, Sensible Tracy spotted this turn in demeanour and wasn’t about to let me stuff things up. She kicked me hard on the ankle and I sat up straight, Moody Teenage Tracy banished back to her playpen. For now, at least. Moody Teenage Tracy was to grow up eventually: she became Moody Grown-Up Tracy, the only difference being that she now knows bigger words and nobody can send her to her room. I’m looking forward to Moody Middle-Aged Tracy and Moody Mouldering Ruin Tracy one day, too. It all sounds like a ton of fun.

No matter what this miserable doctor or anybody else had to say, I’d already decided. The decision had been made the night the Whatever Girl hijacked my body and my brain. Maybe even long before that.

However, a decision is not a plan. Any self-respecting Virgo can tell you that. I’d hoped to go to my parents with a good, solid five-year projection. With bar graphs. Spiral-bound, maybe. Unfortunately, a five-minute plan was as far as I’d got. It started with a trip to the loo.

I’d wanted to be ready when they asked the Big Questions. (Not “Who am I?” That one had already been answered, in my own mind, at least. I was “Tracy The Slutty Pregnant Slag, A Burden On Her Family And Society At Large”.) But there were more pressing matters to attend to, such as, “What the hell did you think you were doing?” And “I hope you’re proud of yourself now.” What can you say to questions like that? Nothing very satisfactory, I’m afraid. They’re not real questions anyway. They’re just something to say to kill time while your head catches up with events.

The $64 000 question, the number one question I was asked by everybody back then (including friends, nuns and random strangers) and am still asked to this day is, “Where’s The Father?” I have some theories about why people do this. I think it’s the same reason people watch Jerry Springer. They do it so that they can pretend to feel shocked at what the world is coming to. They want me to look uncomfortable and admit I don’t know who he is. Or just look at my feet and start crying. They want me to be a Bad Girl. And if I’m not a Bad Girl, then I must be a Stupid Girl. Either will do. Either would prove that they’re better than me. They know they are, of course, but they want to hear me say it.

It’s stupid, but it still bothers me, even today. Never mind my mothering skills, never mind what kind of life I’m giving my child, never mind how good we are for each other. I could be crowned Mother of the Year. I could give my child one of my kidneys or rescue him from a burning building. It would never be enough for them, just because I don’t have that blasted ring on my finger. And even if I did get married one day (the day monkeys fly out of my butt – watch this space), those damn busybodies will still tsk-tsk knowingly among themselves, because that would just be a consolation prize, wouldn’t it? I’m not fooling anyone, am I? It’s second best and it’s so unfortunate. (I hate that word – “unfortunate”. It’s like nails on a blackboard to me. I can’t stand people who use it to describe other people’s lives. They make me think unkind thoughts.)