Morning sickness that lasted all day. Weird food cravings that sent her to the grocery store at midnight looking for pickles and ice cream. And the kind of exhaustion that made her fall asleep sitting up watching Netflix. And when things got really tough, when the glamorous reality of being a surrogate mother started to hit her, guess who she turned to for support?
Not Charles and Vivien, who were busy living their fabulous rich-people life. Not her sister Clara, who was great at cheerleading from a distance but mysteriously unavailable when actual help was needed. Not her mother Joanne, who'd suddenly developed a case of selective hearing whenever Melissa called asking for assistance. Nope.
She turned to me. The guy she'd basically told to go screw himself when he asked her not to carry another man's baby. The pattern was always the same. She'd start out trying to handle everything herself, putting on this brave face like she was some kind of pregnancy warrior who didn't need anybody.
But then reality would set in, usually around 3:00 a.m. when the baby decided to practice kickboxing on her internal organs. And she'd come knocking on my bedroom door like a lost puppy looking for shelter. "Grant," she'd whisper, tapping softly on the door like she was afraid to wake me up, even though we both knew I wasn't sleeping. Who could sleep with all the drama happening under our roof?
"Grant, are you awake?" I'd lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathe on the other side of the door. Part of me, the part that had loved her for eight years, the part that had held her hair back when she had food poisoning, the part that had stayed up all night when she was scared about Jake's ear infection, wanted to open that door and help her. But the bigger part, the part that was still pissed off about her complete disregard for our marriage, kept me glued to the mattress.
"Please, Grant, just once, can you help me? The baby's kicking so hard I can't sleep, and I'm scared something's wrong." That's when I'd roll over and deliver my favorite new phrase with all the warmth of a tax audit. "Not my baby, not my problem."
The silence that followed was always thick enough to cut with a knife. Sometimes she'd stand there for a few minutes, probably hoping I'd change my mind. Sometimes I'd hear her crying softly through the door, which should have broken my heart but mostly just made me angry. She'd made her choice, and now she was learning that choices have consequences.
Even our neighbors started to notice that something was off. Mr. Daniels, the retired guy next door who spent most of his time watering his lawn and judging everyone else's landscaping choices, cornered me one Saturday morning while I was taking out the trash. "Grant," he said, glancing toward our house where Melissa was visible through the kitchen window, moving slowly and looking about as miserable as a human being could look. "Everything okay over there?"
"Melissa looks exhausted." I followed his gaze and saw her struggling to reach something in the top cabinet, her pregnant belly making it impossible to get close enough to the counter. Six months ago, I would have rushed inside to help her. Now, I just shrugged and kept walking toward the garbage cans.