Bugger.

Shit.

Bugger.

Look, what do you want me to say? Yes, I’m pregnant. I’m that stupid slapper all those sanctimonious people talk about when they preach their “it only takes one time” sermon.

I mean, why me? Statistically Pascalle should be pumping out baby number 5, given the number of times I bet she’s done it when she and her victim for the night are too wasted to worry about anything as basic as contraception.

Pascalle is crying in her room, by the way. I can hear her through the wall. I suppose I should go and check she’s okay or something like that. Or smother her with a pillow so I can get some sleep.

Not that I’ll be able to make jokes like that any more. Make a joke about smothering anything when you’re a mother, there will be half-a-dozen government agencies assessing me and poking me with sticks to see if I’m mental. Already everyone is looking at me different, like I don’t exist any more. Already I’ve become this thing carrying around this precious cargo. That is now my only function in life. It sucks beyond all comprehension.

I cannot be a mother. I am not programmed to be a mother. I have too many other things I need to do with my life other than be a mother.

But I’m going to be a mother.

And Pascalle is still crying in her room.

Shit.