The Warbler

by Sarah Beth Durst

There was no way she could have a baby. She thought of mothers on TV, with friends who threw them baby showers, with overinvolved parents and overindulgent grandparents. She didn’t even have a doctor, hadn’t been to a doctor in years. What about health insurance? Prenatal vitamins? A crib? How was she supposed to afford diapers? Or food? She had to be practical. With a child, you needed to at least be able to offer the stability of a home, and that was the one thing she could never, ever give this baby. Lori rested her cheek against the tree’s bark. It was a catalpa: clusters of white flowers between heart-shaped leaves. One of her favorite trees. This was a nice yard. The flower beds were weeded. She recognized peony bushes and daylilies. She wasn’t sure what other kinds of flowers had been planted, but someone had put thought and love into it. They’d planted bulbs in anticipation of seeing them bloom. I could have had this. If she’d been someone else. If she’d had a different life. She could have had a nice home with a nice garden, with her own catalpa tree. Or maybe this life was always her fate. She certainly hadn’t had any choice in it. But this—her hands curved over her stomach—she had a choice right now. She didn’t have to be alone. Not ever again. This much she had control over. Maybe she couldn’t have her own home, a perfect family, the life of her dreams, the love of her life . . . but she could have this child. She just hoped someday her child would forgive her.