MONTH ONE
(THE STORY SO FAR)
It wasn't as if I was the only teenager in the world going through this at the moment or had ever been through it. Pregnancy, the so called miracle of life. To say it was a mistake would be simply to deny that I had ever had sexual intercourse, and well we all know that it's physically impossible to be a Virgin Mary...with the exception of IVF and all that. I knew the risks of what I was doing, and I understood the consequences. But when I skipped my period I was hoping for an STI rather than an unwanted pregnancy.
Over the summer break I had began to accept my fate. My parents on the other hand; well I can't say that my own mother was thrilled at the news of potentially becoming a grandmother while her skin was wrinkle-free, not that she ever intended to get wrinkles. My options had been weighed, or shall I rephrase that as their options. Abortion, adoption, shipping me off to some far away state of America to hide that fact that I was pregnant and my bastard child once it was born or simply killing me. My father's preference was the last of the few.
Their first question had been simple enough; 'who was the father?' When I refused to tell them my father began shouting at me, calling me every name between a whore and a prostitute. And for once in his life he was utterly and simply correct. For someone that didn't even know I was highly allergic to peanuts he seemed to be able to correctly stick a label on me. No I'm not a mistress of the night, just a floozy; a girl who doesn't even know who the father of her own unborn child is or should be. All I can say is that I've learnt to now ask for at least the name of the guy I'm about to sleep with. But with ten names in one week, well somehow I don't think that would help to improve the situation.
I didn't blame my parents for being ashamed of me or barely talking to me after the 'revelation'. We weren't of a poor socio-economic status. We were rich, well educated and above all respected. My father is second in charge in one of the world's leading banks. I know I'm meant to be proud but it all seems so boring. My mother is a woman of the house and more discreetly a woman of the pool room. I've known for a while that the pool boy was not just someone that did a good job at maintaining the cleanliness of the pool. This pathetic stereotypical relationship has been in the works for a good ten months now.
To make matters worse they were even more furious at my stubbornness as I decided to keep this 'thing'. My mother cried. My father smashed a very expensive vase. They asked me why. I said I was bored. It'd give me something to do for the next nine months and eighteen years of its life. It couldn't be that bad. Besides, when I do get bored then I'll just hire a nanny to look after it.
On the bright side of things, summer was finally drawing to its conclusion with autumn and then winter approaching. As the colder months approached I took comfort in the fact that I would be able to hide my ever growing stomach inside the over-sized jumper of one of the guys that was bound to 'drive me home'.