Life as a single mom

Four weeks passed and my period never showed.

At first I just told myself it was stress. Late nights at the salon before I quit, the weird night in the mall, the divorce papers that came way too fast… everything. Bodies get weird when you’re stressed, right?

But then another week went by. And another. So one rainy Tuesday morning, while my husband was at work, I bought the cheapest pregnancy test from the drugstore on the corner. Peeled the wrapper off with shaking fingers in the bathroom, set a timer on my phone, and waited.

Two lines.

I sat on the closed toilet lid and cried so hard my throat hurt. For a full hour. Just quiet, ugly sobs that echoed off the tiles.

How could this have happened?

We always used condoms. My husband was super careful — especially during my fertile days. He never even tried to go without. And the other guy… the guy from the tobacco shop… he had to have worn one. I remembered the break he took, how he came back limp and then got hard again. Guys don’t just… skip that part. Right? I kept replaying it in my head. He said all that crazy dirty talk about knocking me up, about sending me home full of his “gooey slime” with a baby in my belly. But that was just sex talk. Just filthy fantasy stuff to make it hotter. He even said out loud it was only a fantasy. He promised.

So it couldn’t have been him. It couldn’t.

But the test didn’t care what I believed.

My husband figured it out pretty quick. I didn’t even have to tell him — he saw the box in the trash and the way I kept touching my stomach when I thought he wasn’t looking. He didn’t yell. He just got very quiet. Then one evening he put divorce papers on the kitchen table and said he couldn’t raise another man’s baby. He was gone two weeks later.

Now it’s just me and the little one in a one-bedroom apartment in the suburbs. Peeling paint, noisy neighbors, a fridge that hums like it’s dying. The baby’s almost three months old now — a girl with big eyes and my nose. She cries a lot at night. I barely sleep more than two hours at a stretch.

The only upside? My body bounced back stupidly fast.

My boobs are huge now — full and heavy, leaking if I don’t pump on time. My stomach is flat again, smooth, no stretch marks worth crying over. I gained maybe fifteen pounds overall, but it all went to my thighs and my ass. When I stand in front of the mirror in just panties I look… hot. Like really hot. The kind of hot that used to get me extra tips at the salon. Curvier, softer, but still tight in the right places.

I’ve thought about dating again. Clubs are out — no babysitter, no energy, no desire to explain a three-month-old to some drunk guy at 2 a.m. But maybe the supermarket? The park? Some nice single dad pushing a stroller who’d understand? I just want someone steady again. Someone kind. Someone like my husband used to be before everything broke.

Or… maybe him.

The tobacco-shop guy. He promised he’d get in touch. He said he’d call. I keep checking my phone like an idiot, even though I never gave him my number. Maybe he looked up my address somehow. Maybe he’ll just show up one day with flowers or cash or… something. Anything. The nights are so long. The baby wakes up every two hours. My boobs hurt, my back hurts, I’m always tired. I could really use someone to hold me right now. Tell me I’m still pretty. Tell me everything’s gonna be okay. Maybe even help with rent. Or diapers. Or just… company.

I was lying in bed — naked under the thin sheet because it was too hot and I was too lazy to find pajamas — when the doorbell rang.

My heart jumped into my throat.

I scrambled out of bed, grabbed the old terrycloth bathrobe hanging on the door (the one that barely closes over my chest now), tied it loosely, and padded barefoot down the short hallway.

The baby was finally asleep in her crib. I didn’t check the peephole. I just opened the door a crack, one hand on the chain.

There he was.

Same greasy hair, same heavy belly pushing against his shirt, same yellowed grin. He looked me up and down — slowly — like he was remembering every inch.

“Hey, tight-jeans,” he said, voice low and amused. “Told you I’d get in touch.”

My mouth went dry. My knees felt weak.

I didn’t slam the door. I didn’t scream. I just stared at him, bathrobe slipping open a little at the chest, heart hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it.

And somewhere deep inside — under the shock, under the fear, under the exhaustion — that stupid, naïve little part of me felt… relieved.

He came back.

Just like he promised.