August 3, 1990
My period is late. My period is never late. I was supposed to get it six days ago.
But I can’t be pregnant. I’ve been careful. I’m on the pill.
I have a plan. Managing the resort by twenty-three. Married by twenty-six. Two children before I’m thirty.
I’m not supposed to have kids for at least another five years!
Europe. Work. Marriage. Babies. That’s the order things are supposed to go in.
I’m not pregnant. I’m not. I can’t be.
Except my boobs hurt. A lot.
