(Lees in Nederlands)

“You can’t be serious,” I say, shocked. “What you just said, you only said because you don’t know what the future will look like.”

“Let me tell you,” Miranda says decisively, “that I know exactly what I want right now, and that’s a future where this little lump of cells, which keeps growing, has no place.”

With a look of disgust, she points to her stomach.

“But,” I stammer, “that lump of cells is from both of us. You can’t just remove it without asking if I think that’s okay.”

“And why shouldn’t I be able to do that? After all, it’s my own body. I decide about it, not you. You have nothing to do with this anymore. You should have thought beforehand that if things went wrong, it would be my decision what happens to it.”

“Wrong?” I repeat, “Why is having a baby a mistake? It’s a new small human. Don’t you understand it’s a little miracle?”

Miranda laughs scornfully. “You have it easy. You don’t have to carry it for nine months. You don’t have to go through a painful delivery. You don’t have to quit your job once it’s born. Your figure won’t look ridiculous. Your skin won’t stretch so much you have permanent scars. You can always go wherever you want.”

She sinks down onto the bench by the pond.

She looks pale.

The tension of the past few weeks is evident on her face.

“But you don’t have to do it alone, right? I’ll help you as much as I can,” I try to convince her.

“I don’t believe that,” Miranda says indignantly, “we barely know each other. We just made a mistake, and I plan to fix it.”

“You’re right we made a mistake,” I say, “but the solution you’re suggesting isn’t a good solution.”

Miranda stands up.

“We’ve talked enough for today. I’m going back to work.”

She immediately walks away.

I follow her.

She abruptly turns around.

“Leave me alone,” she says angrily, “you’ve caused enough pain.”

Dismayed, I stand on the path along the pond.

Is it really all my fault?

I was certainly stupid and acted thoughtlessly, but I never forced her, I argue with myself.

She was just as involved as I was.

In the distance, I see Miranda walking down the path.

Back to her office.

How will her parents and colleagues react when they find out what Miranda plans to do?

Will they agree with her and tell her she’s the boss of her own body and that it’s just a lump of cells she doesn’t need to worry about?

Or will someone tell her that help is available, and that adoption is one of the solutions? That there are people who would love to take care of her baby.

I don’t know what to think and also head back to work.

The rest of the day, my thoughts drift to a tiny little person who is also my child.

Slowly, very slowly, the months crawl by.

For some unknown reason, Miranda still hasn’t made a decision about Beau’s future, as I call the baby.

During lunch breaks, I go to the park as often as I can, hoping that Miranda will be there too.

Whenever I see her, I immediately start a conversation.

“Hey, how’s it going? Can I do something for you?”

The answers are always the same.

“Everything’s fine. I’m managing fine.”

I slowly watch her belly grow.

How I wish I could place my hand on the curve of her belly and feel Beau kicking.

“May I feel?” I dare to ask her one day when I see her sitting exhausted on a bench.

It’s warm, and I see sweat beads on Miranda’s forehead.

Miranda shakes her head. “No, you may not.”

Then suddenly, I see a change in her eyes.

She sits up straighter.

“Okay,” she says, and she takes my hand and places it on her belly.

Something is moving under her tight T-shirt.

Are those little arms or legs I’m feeling?

I don’t know, but it makes me really happy inside.

See? I think, everything will be just fine.

What caused the change in Miranda, I can only guess.

Is she building a connection with the little one?

It’s now only a few weeks before Beau will be born.

“How long do you plan to keep working?” I ask her.

“As long as I can walk. The longer I work, the longer I can get maternity leave once the baby is born,” she says.

“That’s a good idea,” I say. “But you know I want to help you with everything, right?”

“Yes, I know. You’ve told me several times.”

Do I hear irritation in her voice?

I quickly dismiss that thought.

The summer is hot, and it can’t be easy to carry such a heavy, uncomfortable burden every day.

“You have my phone number, right?” I ask.

Miranda nods.

“Will you call me when the contractions start, when the baby is coming?”

Miranda nods again.

Then I dare to ask something I’ve been thinking about for a while.

“Can I be there for the delivery?”

The words are out, and I anxiously watch Miranda, waiting for her response.

A frown appears on her nose, and I expect her to refuse.

Again, I see that slight change in her eyes, and then, to my surprise, she says, “Yes, that’s fine.”

A smile appears on my face. “Great, thank you,” I say.

Two weeks later, the phone call I’ve been waiting for comes.

“Can you come to the hospital?” the nurse asks on the other end of the line.

I hang up and jump into the car.

I rush through the busy city traffic.

I hurry through the hospital halls to the maternity ward.

I talk to a nurse at the desk.

“Where can I find the delivery rooms? I’m here for Miranda. A nurse just called me.”

The nurse flips through some papers and gives me a room number.

I walk in the direction she points.

The signs for the delivery rooms point in the opposite direction.

I feel confused.

Still, I continue in the direction the nurse sent me.

One of the first rooms I pass has the number the nurse gave me.

“What?” I say out loud to myself, “This isn’t a delivery room.”

I step inside and see Miranda sitting on one of the beds.

Next to her is a bassinet made of clear material.

There’s a baby in it.

Dazed, I approach Miranda’s bed.

“I thought you were going to call me when the contractions started so I could be there for the birth.”

“It all happened so fast, that I didn’t have time to call you.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I only say. “Is everything okay with the baby? Is it a boy or a girl?” I ask.

“It’s a girl,” Miranda says.

I lean over the bassinet and see a tiny face peeking out from under a pink hat.

Little fists are tightly clenched next to the face.

“She’s beautiful,” I whisper.

Miranda smiles.

We talk for a bit, and then I ask when she’ll be able to go home.

“Tomorrow morning, around 11,” Miranda says.

“I’ll come pick you up,” I say, “and I’ll take you home.”

“That’s fine,” Miranda says. “Just don’t come too early so I can shower and get ready to leave.”

“Okay,” I say, and after I’ve gently stroked the tiny cheek one more time, I say goodbye to Miranda.

“See you tomorrow morning,” I say.

Miranda smiles.

And again I see that change in her eyes.

What is that? I think, confused.

Feeling like the luckiest person in the world, I leave the room.

I speak briefly to the same nurse who’s standing at the desk.

“That went really fast, I heard from Miranda.”

The nurse looks at me in surprise. “If you think 16 hours is fast,” she says nonchalantly.

I’m a little taken aback.

I say nothing, only smile sheepishly.

How could I have been so naive to think she would want me there for the birth?

Such a shame, I think as I walk down the halls toward the exit.

The next morning, I wake up early, but I respect Miranda’s request not to come too early.

At exactly 11, I’m standing outside the room where Miranda and the baby are.

I go inside.

Only a nurse is there, sitting in the chair next to the bassinet, bottle-feeding the baby.

I look around the room.

“Where’s Miranda?” I ask the nurse.

She shrugs and points to an envelope on the dresser next to the bed.

“That’s for you,” she says.

I grab the envelope off the dresser and open it.

“I’ve fulfilled your request. Now it’s your turn to take care of the rest,” it says on the paper inside.

“Where’s Miranda?” I ask again.

“I don’t know,” says the nurse, “I haven’t seen her for a while.”

I grab my phone and dial Miranda’s number.

“This number is no longer in service,” comes the message in my ear.

“It seems,” I say upset to the nurse, “that Miranda has left the care of the baby to me.”

“How are you going to take the baby?” asks the nurse worried. “Do you have a Maxi-Cosi?”

I shake my head.

“I have nothing for the baby,” I say, bewildered.

“Then you better buy something”, the nurse says. “I’ll watch the baby for you.”

Panicked, I run out of the hospital.

Where on earth am I going to buy things for the baby?

I park my car in the garage under the city’s biggest department store.

An hour later, I load all the items the saleswoman recommended into the back of my car and drive back to the hospital.

With the Maxi-Cosi on my arm, I walk through the halls, nerves racing through my body.

The nurse helps me place the baby in the Maxi-Cosi.

All the instructions she gives me slip right past me.

Now with a heavier Maxi-Cosi, I leave the hospital.

At home, I flop down on the couch.

I feel guilty.

Did I underestimate the panic Miranda felt when she found out she was pregnant, or did I make light of it?

I cover my face with my hands and stay there, frozen on the couch.

From the Maxi-Cosi comes a whimper.

I spring up.

What should I do now?

What did the nurse say about feeding times and clean diapers?

The clock shows it’s time for the next feeding.

I rummage through the bag of baby essentials and pull out a can of powdered milk.

After reading the instructions three times, I scoop some powder into a bottle.

Add water, shake, and ready to go, right?

The bottle feels cold.

That’s probably not good for the baby’s tummy.

I remember the bottle warmer the saleswoman recommended.

Not much later, I’m sitting with the baby on my lap.

I let out a deep sigh.

So far, so good.

Suddenly, I sit up straight.

What am I going to do with the baby when I go back to work the day after tomorrow?

I can’t take her with me.

Wouldn’t it be handy if my mom lived nearby?

My brain works overtime trying to think of someone who can care for the baby during the day.

No one comes to mind.

That evening, after the last feeding, I fall asleep exhausted.

In the middle of the night, I wake up to the sound of a baby crying.

At first, it doesn’t register, but when the crying turns into screaming, I jump out of bed and pick up the baby.

What now?

While I rock the baby in my arms, I try to prepare a bottle of milk.

When I finally manage to make it, I collapse on the couch and give the baby the bottle.

My eyes close from exhaustion until I hear the sound of just air being sucked in.

I hold the baby upright, as I’ve seen mothers do, and pat her back.

No burp comes, but somewhere in the baby’s tummy, it starts rumbling dangerously.

Good grief, what now? I think.

I gag when I see the green muck during the diaper change.

A little later, I lay the tiny bundle in her bassinet.

Then I sink down on the couch.

Guilt rises again.

I thought it would be easier than this.

Then, anger bubbles up.

Why doesn’t Miranda want to do this with me?

I quickly dismiss this thought.

Miranda made it clear from the beginning that she didn’t want this.

No matter how sickening it is that she disappeared without a trace, she fulfilled my request, and now I have to deal with the consequences.

I fall asleep on the couch.

I wake up to the sunlight streaming through the curtains and murmurs from the baby’s crib.

Everything hurts from lying uncomfortably on the couch.

I feel completely drained.

My head is spinning.

I force myself to find places in my apartment for the things I bought for the baby.

As soon as I can, I call my boss to explain the situation.

“Didn’t you see this coming?” he asks, irritated.

“No, it completely took me by surprise. I didn’t know she would leave me with the baby and disappear.”

“Well, you have a year of parental leave, I can’t refuse you that, but I still find it a nasty trick,” he says.

“Sorry,” I say, and I mean it.

To soften the situation for my boss, I offer to work a few hours a day from home.

He agrees.

With a sigh of relief, I put the phone down.

I don’t want to stay inside with this beautiful weather.

I put the baby in the carrier and step out of my apartment, into the hallway.

When the elevator opens, there’s the older woman who lives above me.

“Is that your baby?” she asks, surprised. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“A girl,” I say.

“What’s her name?” she continues.

For a moment, I have to think.

Before she was born, it was so easy to call her Beau.

Now that I feel the weight of responsibility on my shoulders, I’ve been calling her baby.

“She’s called Belle,” I say.

“What a beautiful name. And how is your wife?” she asks, interested.

Wife? I think confused, and I blurt out, “I don’t have a wife.”

I see the surprised look on my neighbor’s face, and I quickly add, “She left me with the baby.”

“Hmm,” says the woman, “it seems like you could use some help.”

As we step out of the elevator and she walks toward the front door, she says, “Let me know when you need a babysitter. I have all the time in the world.”

“Thank you,” I stammer, and despite the heavy mental burden I feel, I smile.

It will all be well.