I was seventeen years old and had been an only child for that entire time. I had reveled in having no rival for my parent’s love and attention. But then in the spring of 1957, my mother reported she felt nauseated.
She’d recently taken a bad fall and only went to the doctor because my dad and I urged her to make an appointment to check for a cracked rib.
Twenty four hours later my world was topsy-turvy. Mom wasn’t sick.
She was pregnant.
Thousands of thoughts steamed through my head. I would lose my parents’ focus and attention. I would lose their love. I would be displaced by a cherubic angel.
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