Knees burning on this cold tile floor crouched over barfing into this bowl. Pregnant. What thaaa? Four children are enough.
Clenching the rim, gurgling waves my throat and splashes back at me from the bowl. Someone please hold my hair, I’m drenched in sweat. Vision spins and nostrils revolt a small litany to the foul stench wafting. Pregnant.
“You ok?” hangdog hubby asks after telling me of his mistress and her pregnancy.



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