Telling

Mom sat on the couch, pulling yarn from the ball on the floor. I could hear her silently counting her stitches. She sat busily adding more yarn to her project while listening to the TV. I don't rightly remember the exact thing that was being broadcast that night, most likely a Made for TV Movie; she had been favoring all the hyped up ones, watching one saga then the next as they played their time on the small screen. The dramatic music and heart felt lines did nothing to add to my courage. I was shaking in my shoes. I kept looking at her from the corner of my eye. I had to tell her. There was no way I could not. I was never gifted with the subtle art of starting difficult conversations.  The couple times I thought I found the nerve, I ended up finding my fingernails extremely engaging. I remember feeling my stomach sinking as I opened my mouth to speak. The words didn't come out, I thought I wasn't going to get this done, as I quickly closed my mouth again. I thought about how I could put this off and not worry about it, except that I could not put this off or not worry about it. Finally I turned in my chair, directly facing Mom and simply said, "Mom, I am pregnant." No preamble, no hitting it soft and warming up to it. Just out there, on the table. And only as a child can define in her own mother's eyes, I saw the emotions roiling around in hers. Most of them I did not understand, or recognize, but there was no mistaking the anger. And the disappointment.