The end is still fuzzy. It was August, and our life had finally calmed. We’d spent the weekend in Pennsylvania, at an engagement party for my nephew. We sat at a plastic summer table eating bread and cheese. My parents, my siblings and their spouses, my Zia Mirella, were all there. My mom referred to C as her future son-in-law. Zia asked if we wanted children. I launched into a speech about universal college and healthcare, global warming. Roe v. Wade had just been overturned. What incentive, I asked, is there for me to bring a child into this country? I still feel the truth of this answer and the absence of it. In the beginning, C spoke of the future easily: If you ever got pregnant, I’d do everything for you, said on the phone, far away. I had only ever known flighty skater boys, bad boys, wrong boys. No one had ever looked at my body and thought of family. Later, C spoke of children as a burden he didn’t want. So when Zia asked, I used the word ‘incentive’ because I was trying to convince myself that I didn’t want them, either, that I didn’t wish to feel a man love me on a whole spectrum. It was easier if we wanted the same things. And C, always good at playing the roles our families asked of us, put his arm around me, smiled charmingly, and said that we were open to it. Two weeks later, he was gone.

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From "Speak up. Save yourself, and save me." Read the full essay on Substack.