Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul by Jack Canfield Page B

what?” I asked the doctor.
    â€œEndometriosis. It’s a noncancerous condition in which pieces of the uterine lining grow outside your uterus and adhere to other pelvic structures, most commonly the ovaries, bowel, fallopian tubes or bladder. It is a common cause of pelvic pain and infertility.”
    â€œSo what does that mean?” I asked, even though deep in my heart, I knew.
    My doctor looked me dead in the eyes. “It means that you will never have children.”
    Just like that, at the age of twenty-three, all hopes of one day being a mother died.
    A month later, my marriage was buried in the same coffin when my husband decided that being a father was more important than being my husband. Much to my devastation, within two weeks he was gone.
    It took a while but eventually I got out of bed, put on my clothes and walked out the door with my head held high; carrying a promise with me to never get involved with a man who didn’t have children of his own.
    Six years and several relationships later, I met Ethan. Immediately, we hit it off. Not only was Ethan a gem, he came with his own kid. Jackpot! It was a dream come true—or so I thought. Unfortunately, I was in for a rude awakening when he called one Saturday, about a month after we’d started dating.
    â€œTee, I’ll be over this afternoon with someone I’d like for you to meet.”
    â€œWho?” I asked.
    â€œSomeone that I love very much and hope one day you will, too.”
    Ah, the moment of truth had arrived. I was about to meet Brian, Ethan’s son.
    As it turned out, Brian was a handful from day one. The second I opened my door, he zoomed past me, jumped over my couch, did a cartwheel and karate-chopped the air with the plastic sword he carried.With wide-open eyes and mouth, I looked at Ethan. Oh no, he didn’t just jump on my new couch!
    â€œBoy, sit your butt down and act like you got some sense!” Ethan shouted. “This might be your stepmother one day!”
    â€œUmph,” I mumbled.
    So marked the beginning of my life with Brian. He was a typical three-year-old, running, dashing and jumping constantly—something that I was ill-equipped to handle.
    As the relationship progressed, and Ethan and I started living with each other, there were times that I wanted to throw in the towel; especially when Brian’s mother started dropping him off at our house every weekend.
    A couple of hours of dealing with a rowdy three-year-old was one thing, but every weekend was a different novel altogether. I tried talking to Ethan, but he was too overjoyed about the time he got to spend with his son. The feeling was mutual as far as Brian was concerned. How was I supposed to fight such a lethal combination?
    After some careful strategizing, I decided to speak to Brian’s mother. “Look, we have him every weekend. Can we please try to work something out so that we can share weekends? You know, you take him one weekend and we’ll take him the next?” I asked, with a sugary smile pasted on my face.
    Brian’s mother smiled back with an equally sugary smile. “I’d love to do that, but I work on the weekends, honey. It’s his father’s responsibility to keep him when I can’t.”
    Oh, no, she didn’t! Girlfriend played me. I knew when I had been trumped, so I shut my mouth and vowed revenge.
    The fight was on!
    Eventually, Ethan and I got married. We decided to spend our honeymoon in New Orleans, and since this included the weekend, Brian’s mother was none too happy about the arrangement. Umm hmmm, things are about to change , I thought, as I stared into her defeated face.
    For seven heavenly days, Ethan and I enjoyed the sights, food and music that comprised New Orleans. On the trip home, something nagged me the entire time, warning me of things to come. As long as I live, I will never forget the sequence of events that followed.
    Seconds after we unloaded the