Mrs. Walden’s eyes drop to my belly, protruding below my thrift-store black-and-green blouse with the empire waist. It has ruffles around the collar, and it’s so tacky I could cry, but at the time I bought it, I was in no position to drop a bunch of cash on clothing I would need for only four or five months. Anyway, Mrs. Walden isn’t judging me on my cheap, ugly shirt. She’s judging me because I am twenty-three years old, eight months pregnant, and unmarried. But honestly, it’s none of her damn business.
