Thursdays At Eight by Debbie Macomber

reversal. Zoe was next; she burst into tears, stormed back into her room and slammed the door. Then Peter laid into me—only he didn’t utter a word. He simply looked at me, andhis expression said it all. He was furious with me for having worried them. He stomped out, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
    I sat there for another hour. Had any of my family come in to listen, I would’ve told them exactly what I’d been doing. Driving around. After closing the shop, I left the strip mall and drove through town. I followed long, winding streets with no destination in mind, and then headed out to the highway. I went as far as McDonalds, where I had milk and a muffin, and turned back.
    Peter was as upset as the children, but surely he of all people could understand why I did what I did. I couldn’t look my children in the eye knowing I’m pregnant.
    While I was driving around, I found myself at the cemetery for some oddball reason. My grandparents are buried there, but I barely remember them so I don’t feel any deep connection. It probably had more to do with the way I was feeling. As if my life, the one I’ve been so careful to plan and nurture, is over. Corny symbolism, I know, but that’s how depressed I felt.
    Options are available to me. I’m well aware of what they are. I only wish I was the kind of woman who could walk into a clinic and be done with it, get rid of the burden. I never dreamed I’d even consider such a possibility. At first, the appeal of it was strong. No one need ever find out. Peter, of course. He wouldn’t like it, would try to change my mind, but I know my husband and he wouldn’t stop me. I thought about it, I really did. Even now, when I can be completely and totally honest, I can’t make myself write the word.
    An easy solution is what it sounds like, and for some women it might be the answer, but not me. I know myself too well. I hate that I’m pregnant, but I won’t undo what’s already been done.
    Adam and Zoe realized something was wrong, but they seemed to think Peter and I had had a disagreement. I’m alwayshome for them in the evenings. They’re accustomed to having dinner on the table and me there to help with homework and to chat. Both of them were upset with me. Peter was, too. Later, when he’d cooled down, he asked if I’d eaten dinner and I told him yes. He said he’d ordered pizza for the kids. I went to bed and Peter came and asked if there was anything he could do. I told him no.
    I thought of calling Georgia, but didn’t. Much as I love her, I just don’t know how to tell her about this. She’s been married four times, twice to the same man, and she’s childless. How could she understand what I’m feeling?
    I could talk to the women in the breakfast group—except that I’m not ready. I’ll tell them in a few weeks.
    I wonder if the baby senses how much I don’t want to be pregnant. Adam and Zoe were gifts; not this baby.
    Is it wrong to hope I miscarry? The fact that I’m almost forty might mean the baby’s at risk. There’s a far higher chance of birth defects. Oh, God, I can’t think about that now.
    I feel so guilty and ashamed. Mostly I feel miserable.
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    Julia sat in her rocking chair, knitting by rote as her mind rapidly spun its thoughts. Thankfully, business had been slow all afternoon. The success of her shop was largely a result of the personal service she gave her customers, many of whom had become friends. Women—and a few men—visited her store; they trusted her advice and sought her opinion concerning their creative efforts.
    Today, though, the quality of her service wasn’t exactly what it should have been.
    Preoccupied as she was, Julia found herself prone to mistakes. Irene Waldmann had certainly pointed that out. The older woman was a regular customer, and earlier that day Juliahad made an error in calculating how