I’m helping my son with his reading when the phone rings. The new apartment is dizzying with paint fumes, despite the open windows. My spouse picks up, steps into the hallway for discretion as if I don’t know what it’s about. I know. I dreamt it last night. A giggling tow-headed toddler girl skipping away from me in a meadow. That’s how I knew last time. A blond boy. A meadow. My hand pets my still, rounded belly. I correct my son’s pronunciation. My spouse’s face appears, pallid with apology. The doctor said to come in. “He says don’t hurry.”
joj grew up an American nomad on welfare. They now live, write, and parent their four children in southern France. Find joj on Twitter and Instagram @jojthefirst and subscribe to their substack at thejojshow.substack.com.