didn’t want a hug. Not really. She was sweaty, and her mouth tasted like puke, and she was so tired. She wanted her mom. She wanted to be five years old again, and to be in bed, sick, and to have her mom bring her minestrone with the beans picked out. She didn’t want to be an adult, didn’t want to have to go to work with her stomach still roiling and the world assaulting her with smells, didn’t want to have to smile bravely and pretend it was all okay since it was all for a small lump of cells that would, at some point, turn into a baby.
Real
