Oh God, please help me. And please, God, help Mark! She opened the door and Mark smiled at her tentatively. “Are you okay?” he asked. She nodded. “And the baby?” “The baby is fine.” “Good,” he said, sitting down in the recliner. She stared at him for a minute, steeling herself. Please, God . . . “The baby isn’t yours,” she whispered. “Oh.” His voice was so soft she barely heard it. “I’m sorry, Mark. I’m so sorry! I wanted it to be yours so much. I hate that she’s not yours.” He sat still, staring at the floor. “Me too,” he said at last. “Are you all right?” she asked. He shook his head. “No, I’m not all right.” They sat a minute, neither of them speaking. “Okay,” he said finally. “Well, at least now we know. At least now we can move on.” “What do you mean, move on?” She watched him, her stomach churning. “I mean, move on. There’s nothing holding us together now.” He rose and began pacing the floor. “Look, I’ve put off getting an apartment because I thought if the baby was mine, maybe we could work it out.”
What do You think about The Weight Of Small Things?
