“W-what do you mean you’re pregnant again? Y-you have birth control. The IUD is supposed to be good for five years,” he stammered, his mouth agape as he ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the unruly brown curls from his forehead and seeming to be as flabbergasted as I was.
“Yeah, well, apparently it’s not super effective when it ‘spontaneously expels’,” I informed him, using air quotes, having sarcasm as my only way of coping with this unexpected news. Charlotte began to cry when Harry stopped feeding her to wipe her face and his shirt with a moist cloth. In an attempt to quell her tears, he lifted the baby up from her high chair in an almost routine manner and patted her back rhythmically, whispering soft, calming sounds into her ear.
“Well, how far along does she think you are?” he managed, nearly choking on his words, seeming to not know what to say as he grabbed a miniature popsicle from the freezer and handed it to Charlotte, hoping it would keep her occupied while we tried to discuss this matter.
“She thinks like, twelve weeks. I have an ultrasound on Thursday. Do you think you could come with me?” He walked over to me with Charlotte on his hip and her fussing appeared to have subsided, clearly content with sucking on her icy treat.
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he assured, his eyebrows still weaved together, not being able to fully absorb the impact of all this. Sighing, he sat down on a chair situated at the kitchen island with Charlotte in his lap and just stared off into space, a million motions lingering behind his emerald green orbs.
“Harry?” I piqued, breaking him from his trance.
“Yeah?”
“How are we going to be able to afford another baby?” I asked softly, defeat and anxiety practically palpable in the tone of my voice.
“We’ll be fine, Y/N. We’ll be fine. We can manage,” he reassured me. I, however, was not fully convinced by his endearingly enduring optimistic attitude.
“Harry…should I…m-maybe I should…get-”.
“No. No. We always wanted more kids. It’s just a little sooner than we planned but…” he trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.
“Harry. Miranda and I discussed my options. All of my options. I-”.
“What options? That isn’t an option, Y/N.”
“Harry. It is,” I said softly to cushion the blow of the information I was trying to give him, averting my eyes to my hands in my lap, incapable of looking him in the face.
“No, Y/N. You’re not doing this. I won’t let you,” he insisted as the volume of his voice grew loud enough to convey his seriousness without frightening the tiny human cradled in his lap.
“I haven’t made a decision yet,” I whispered, my eyes darting to find anything in the room to focus on other than Harry’s hurt expression.
“The only decision that needs to be made is whether in six months you want an epidural or not,” he asserted, clearly irritated at the possibility of an abortion. Charlotte had finished her popsicle and Harry scooted from the tall island chair to place her in the playpen, giving us the opportunity to discuss this more properly.
“Harry, you can’t force me to have a baby. I just finished losing all the weight from Charlotte and I-”.
“Is this is what this is about? You worrying about your weight?” he yelled, his arms animatedly flailing in the air before resting his hands on his hips staring down at me from across the room. I felt my anger rising throughout my body at his juvenile presumption that my weight was the only reason I was willing to terminate a pregnancy.
