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SPRING SUMME R FALLING | 9

I’ve seen and heard of plenty of women who handled pregnancy like a boss. I
know all pregnancies are different – I hear that spiel every time I try to voice my
concerns – but Cassie seems to take it to another level. All the slightly annoying
trivial things I chose to ignore about her personality are severely magnified. She
constantly calls for advice on EVERYTHING. Plus, I go with her to every doctor

visit, and she is perfectly fine, yet she seems more and more incapable to doing
anything for herself.
I asked her to move in with me when she was four months pregnant because it
seemed like the logical thing to do since she is going to be the mother of my child.
Guess what? The moment the last box from her apartment was placed on my
hardwood floor, she quit her job of six years. Why, you ask? It was too hard, and
they didn’t understand her condition. I guess she forgot that her boss is a mother
of three.
I feel like I’ve been duped, and I cannot prove it. I don’t have an issue taking
care of my wife and child so that my wife can give our child the best love and
attention a child could have, but we didn’t discuss this. Plus, she’s not my wife.
And, if the thousands of bible-sized wedding magazines that are currently stacked
in obvious places throughout my entire condo are any indication that she wants

me to propose soon, she’d better keep dreaming.
I know it sounds cold, but there is something off, and I can’t quite put my
finger on it. It’s a bunch of trivial things that give off tiny red flags that my parents
and sister ignore. They just tell me I’m scared of my dramatic lifestyle change. My
sister also suggests that I am a closet commitmentphobe. I’ve discarded her opinion
since she is going through a bitter divorce. She is in the “All Men are Evil” phase of
her life. I would love to believe that Cassie is my great love, but I’ve always been
bad at lying to myself.
I snap out of my thoughts when I see Stu, the group’s snitch, heading my way.
I pull up some specs, so I can look busy. He is long and thin; he reminds me of a
praying mantis. He has a small head that is slowly becoming more visible as his
hairline continues to recede and rob him of his wavy black hair. His Adam’s apple
bobs with every breath he takes. His whole demeanor screams “uptight” -from his
erect posture to his overly starched clothes.
“Hey, Henri.” I cringe at his mispronunciation of my name. At least Sanya
asked if she could call me Henry. I quickly replay our conversation in my head. I