Diary of a Void

by Emi Yagi

So this is pregnancy. What luxury. What loneliness.

What I did wasn’t supposed to be an act of rebellion—more like a little experiment. I was curious. I wanted to see if it even occurred to any of my coworkers, maybe somebody who’d actually been in the meeting, to clean up.

Neither the section head nor the department manager seemed to have any detailed memory of his wife’s pregnancy, and that had worked in my favor.

What seemed of greatest concern to my bosses, rather than when I could clock out, was the question of the coffee. Who would make it? Who was going to deal with the cups?

Another Monday, huh? Cold today, isn’t it? I’ve never known how to reply when people greet you by stating the obvious.

My work, however, involved a few additional tasks. They weren’t named, and no one told me that they were mine. It was simply assumed.

People seemed to be under the impression, at least in my section, that if they made coffee for somebody else, it would signify some deep personal inadequacy.

Isn’t that what people always did? Go their own way, never even bothering to let you know? One moment they’re there, the next they’re gone. And it all happens so quietly that you don’t even realize they aren’t there anymore.

I just hope you managed to live your life the way you wanted, to take naps when you felt like it, to know yourself by a name that made sense to you. .

The internet’s a great place for finding out about stuff you’re kind of interested in, but it can’t really help with the things you really want to know. It’s even worse for things you don’t know anything about.

Maybe that’s what making a family is all about: creating an environment in which people make space for one another—maybe without even trying, just naturally, to make sure that nobody’s forgotten.

I suddenly wanted something of my own, something to make space for. Even if it was just my own and no one else could even see it—something like a lie. And maybe if I could really hold on to that thing, a snowy night like tonight might become something else, something just a little different.

I thought about what was ahead of me: childbirth and everything that would follow. There was so much to be done. I’d finally signed up for childbirth classes the night before. Where I live, you’re eligible for just the first thirty-six weeks. I was cutting it close.

So this is the price to pay. For creating another person, for spinning words. I was in pain. Serious pain. There was something inside me, pushing against my intestines, pressing against my lungs, messing with my bones.

What’s your problem with gravity? Why do you hate lying down so much? Did somebody murder you in your sleep in a past life?

She’s a part of me, another me. And, sure, I know it’s not going to last forever. She really is precious, though. The real problem’s my husband. What good is he?

but did it occur to you that maybe I could work and you could stay at home? Did it even occur to you? Why should I act so grateful just because you changed your daughter’s diaper one time? Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe I’m worn out? Maybe it has, but, what, you think that’s just part of being a mom?

But why do I have to deal with these people who try to act like they care about me or my pregnancy while they ask the most inane, prying questions? Why is it up to me to produce answers that please them?

But I’m always so alone. I guess I should be used to it by now. That’s the way it is from the moment we come into this world, but I’m still not used to it—how alone we all are.”

“Even if it’s a lie, it’s a place of my own. That’s why I’m going to keep it. It doesn’t need to be a big lie—just big enough for one person. And if I can hold on to that lie inside my heart, if I can keep repeating it to myself, it might lead me somewhere. Somewhere else, somewhere different. If I can do that, maybe I’ll change a little, and maybe the world will, too.”

Sounds terrible, right? Having a baby isn’t easy. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. It’s been two thousand years, and it’s the same old story, right?

Even if it is just a lie. The world’s what we make it, right? Even if it’s just us, on our own—with the whole world against us.

At work, everybody had learned how to make the coffee—with the sole exception of the section head.