36. Wren
WREN
The last day of school before spring break should come with extra warnings.
Children might not want to go to school.
Children may hide their backpacks in hopes they will be able to stay home.
Children may also fling themselves onto the ground when you tell them that they do, in fact, have to go to school.
“Daisy…” I bend to pick her up off the ground. “You literally have one more day, babe. One more day. Then we can have so much fun next week, and then we get to have your birthday party next weekend. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
“Don’t make me go back there,” she cries.
Lily stands against the wall, watching her twin, completely unimpressed. “If we don’t leave, we’re going to be late.”
“I know, Lil,” I say, somewhat out of breath from fighting a six-year-old. “Can you go see if Mom’s up?”
She nods and heads up the stairs.
I finally manage to get Daisy into a sitting position and crouch down so that we’re eye to eye. “Why don’t you want to go to school? I thought you liked it?”
She sniffles, tears in her green eyes. “Sofia’s birthday is today, and her dad is bringing her lunch at school.”
My brow furrows. “Is that bad?”
Daisy wipes at her eyes before crossing her arms angrily over her chest. “She said it’s weird that my dad doesn’t ever come to see me.”
Anger boils instantly inside of me, and while I don’t think it’s polite, I’d love to have a little chat with this Sofia. Makes sense why we’re having extra dramatics this morning.
“The next time your birthday happens on a school day, I’ll come eat lunch with you. Maybe even bring you a milkshake?”
The bribe falls flat, and her lips start quivering as more tears fall. “I want a normal family. Like Sofia.”
I sigh, not mentally prepared to have this conversation at seven a.m. “Not all families look the same, Daisy. Sometimes mommies and daddies don’t live together, but sometimes they do.
Everyone gets to choose who they love, and they get to be happy together.
I wouldn’t want you to stay somewhere you weren't happy and loved, would you?”
She shakes her head, and I smile softly. “I didn’t think so. I love you very much. And so does Mommy, Holden, Justin, and Lily. We love you and think you are so, so special, and we are so lucky that we get to spend every day with you.”
“Do you like being with me even when I try to give Lily a haircut?”
I stifle a laugh, moving to stand and holding out a hand to her. “Well, we would all be happy if we didn’t do haircuts anymore, but it doesn’t mean we love you any less.”
She grabs my hand, standing up, and I pull her into a hug. “You okay now?”
“Yeah. I just get sad sometimes.” She wipes her nose on the sleeve.
“That’s perfectly okay. I get sad sometimes too. Can you go to the bathroom really quick before we leave?”
She nods, heading off toward the bathroom.
Talk about a way to start my morning.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out as my mom finally makes it downstairs, Lily right behind her.
“Daisy okay?” she asks, heading straight for the coffee pot.
“Yeah, one of her classmates’ birthdays is today, and her dad is bringing her lunch,” I explain, looking through my notifications before seeing the one from MyChart.
New Test Result
Everything inside me goes quiet.
Mom must notice because she lowers the coffee pot. “What?”
I stare at the screen. “My ultrasound results are in.”
Her whole expression changes.
Mom’s a nurse. She’s had practice controlling her facial expressions.
Unfortunately for her, I’ve had twenty-one years of practice reading it.
“Do you want to open it?” she asks.
“Putting it off won’t change whatever it says,” I say, clicking the results.
The portal loads.
Daisy comes running back into the hallway. “I can’t find my purple water bottle!”
“Check by your backpack,” Lily says.
“It’s not there.”
“It is literally there.”
Their argument fades behind the sound of my own heartbeat.
The report finally opens, and I start reading.
A lot of it is measurements and medical terminology that mean absolutely nothing to me.
Complex cystic lesion.
Homogeneous internal echoes.
Possible endometrioma.
“What does it say?” Mom asks quietly as I continue reading.
Possible pelvic adhesions.
Findings may be seen in the setting of endometriosis.
My stomach drops as I hand her the phone, not knowing nearly anything I just read, outside of one word.
Endometriosis.
“Read that.”
Mom takes it.
I watch her face instead of the screen.
Her eyes move down slowly.
Then stop.
Just for a second.
But I see it.
“You know what that means.”
She looks up. “I know what the words mean.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No.” She hands me the phone. “And I’m not diagnosing you from an ultrasound report.”
“But an endometrioma is endometriosis.”
“It can be associated with endometriosis.”
“Associated.”
“Yes.” She softens her voice. “The radiologist saw something that can be consistent with an endometrioma. They also noted possible adhesions. Both can be associated with endometriosis, but your doctor still needs to interpret the imaging alongside your symptoms and decide what happens next.”
“So you think I have it.”
“I think this gives your doctor more information to consider.”
“That is the most annoying answer you could’ve given.”
“It’s also the only honest one I have,” she says, coming around the island to stand in front of me. “One test doesn’t give us all the answers, love. Each person is very complex in their own way.”
Justin comes down the stairs with one shoe on.
“Has anybody—”
“Behind the couch,” Lily says.
He looks at her. “How do you know?”
“I put it there after I almost fell on it.”
Normally, I’d laugh, but my mind is still reeling.
“Here, how about this…” She reaches for her keys. “I’ll take them to school, then do my errands. That way, you can take your time and get ready for class. Okay?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. I can—”
She rests a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got it, honey. Take your time getting ready, and we’ll talk when you get home. Not just about this, but I needed to talk to you later today anyway.”
Warning bells start going off, but my head is already too full to understand what they mean. “I can take them.”
“I know you can, Wren. I’ve never questioned that for a second,” she says, urging the girls toward the door. “Let me have this one, okay?” Mom looks back toward the stairs.
“Justin! Are you riding with us or walking?”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says, bounding down the stairs. “Holden isn’t in his room.”
I nod numbly. “He got picked up early to hit weights before school.”
Mom smiles softly. “Of course he did. Drive safe, and I’ll see you later.”
I muster a small smile as they all file out, and I’m left alone in the house.
I head upstairs, intending to take a long, hot shower. Instead, I sit on my bed and open my laptop.
I’ve already googled my symptoms countless times, but I never went farther than seeing what could possibly be the reason behind them. I didn’t know which trail to follow, just the general ideas of what could be causing them.
Now I have a new path to research.
Endometrioma.
The first result tells me exactly what Mom already did. An ovarian cyst commonly associated with endometriosis.
Associated.
There’s that fucking word again.
I open another article. Then another.
I tell myself I’m being responsible because I stick to major hospital systems and medical organizations.
That makes absolutely no difference to my ability to catastrophize.
Pelvic pain. Painful periods. Pain during sex. Irregular cycle.
I’ve had enough of those symptoms that every paragraph feels increasingly personal.
Going back to the main search, I’m about to stop reading when one article catches my eye.
Endometriosis and Fertility.
I click the article and start skimming what it says.
Endometriosis can make becoming pregnant more difficult for some people.
Many people with endometriosis conceive naturally.
Treatment is individualized.
Severity varies.
Fertility outcomes vary.
My brain ignores every reassuring word.
It finds infertility and latches on.
Of course.
Of fucking course that’s where my mind goes.
Not to whether I actually have endometriosis. Not to the fact that no doctor has told me a single thing about my fertility.
No, it goes straight to what this could mean when it comes to Kai.
He’s always wanted a family and has never shied away from it. Even when we were seventeen and adulthood sounded like a fictional place we’d eventually visit, he knew.
Four kids. That was his number.
I’d told him four was excessive; he’d argued that three felt uneven.
He wanted a noisy house, to teach his kids how to skate, a garage full of hockey gear, even though I’d mentioned we might end up with other sports, but he paid no mind.
There weren’t many things that excited Kai more than his dreams of being a dad.
And suddenly my brain is ten years ahead, sitting beside him in a fertility clinic while he tells me it doesn’t matter.
What if it does? What if he means it at first? What if loving me changes his whole future?
I slam the laptop shut.
My phone buzzes.
Kai: morning, gorgeous. survive drop-off?
I stare at the message, then I lock my phone.
I can’t talk to him yet.
At 8:45, I’m still in pajamas.
At 8:50, I email my professor, even though I’m already on thin ice after he let me make up the exam I missed when Daisy was sick.
By 9:00, I’ve decided I’m not going to campus.
I tell myself I’ll stay home and catch up on homework.
Technically, I do open an assignment.
I read the same paragraph seven times.
At 10:15, I’m back on Google, this time in the kitchen with chocolate.
At 11:00, I close every tab.
At 11:12, I reopen one.
By the time Mom comes home a little after one, I’ve managed to mentally diagnose myself, schedule imaginary surgery, destroy my future fertility, and ruin Kai’s life, all before I head to work.
An impressive feat, considering no doctor has spoken to me.
The front door opens, but I don’t move my eyes from my laptop until she enters the room.
Mom comes into the kitchen, carrying two grocery bags.
“Oh, hi, honey,” she says, setting the bags on the counter, smiling as if she doesn't know my world is internally crumbling brick by brick. “I didn’t think you’d be home.
I grabbed paper plates for the girls’ party while I was out.
Purple because apparently that’s the current theme, but I kept the receipt because God knows what they’ll decide by next—”
“Can we not?”
She stops. I close my eyes.
“Sorry.”
Mom sets the bags down. “Not what?”
“Anything.” I rub my hands over my face. “Can we just not talk about the party right now?”
“Of course.”
That makes something inside me crack.
She looks at the laptop.
“How long have you been reading?”
“I did homework.”
“Wren.”
“They were reputable sources.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
My eyes burn.
“It looks like endometriosis.”
She pulls out the chair beside me. “I know the imaging, along with what you’ve been dealing with, raises that possibility, but we don’t know yet, Wren. Why don’t we try not to borrow tomorrow’s troubles today?”
“And it can cause infertility.”
Her brow furrows, confused as to why that’s my focus. “For some people, yes.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“I’m not trying to—”
I run my fingers through my hair. “You keep doing that.”
Her brows pull together. “Doing what?”
“Talking to me like I’m one of your patients.”
She goes still.
“Everything is calm and clinical. We need more information. Talk to your doctor. Don’t assume anything yet.” My voice starts shaking. “I know all of that.”
“Wren—”
“I don’t need a nurse right now.” My throat feels like it’s going to close. “I need my mom.”
Her face changes completely. “Oh, honey.”
And that nearly does me in.
“I’m so tired.” I push away from the table and stand. “I’m tired of everyone needing something.”
Her expression falls.
“I’m tired of knowing where everyone’s shoes are and what time school starts and whether Lily’s library book is due and what we still need for the twins’ party and whether Justin turned something in.”
“Wren—”
“And I know you work hard. I know you’re exhausted. I know Dad left you with all of this, and it’s not fair, but I am so fucking tired, Mom. Of everything.” The first tear falls, and I wipe it away. “I make everything easier for everybody else, and I’m so tired of being good at it.”
Mom doesn’t interrupt.
“I know everyone loves me. I know that.” Another tear follows. “But sometimes it feels like people only notice me when I stop functioning.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It might not be, but it feels true to me.”
She swallows.
And somehow that makes me keep going.
“Sometimes I don’t feel like your daughter.”
Pain flashes across her face.
“I feel like your equal. Like we’re coworkers running the house together.” My voice breaks completely. “But I’m still your daughter.”
Mom closes her eyes, taking a deep breath, and when she opens them again, they’re shining with unshed tears.
“I want someone to take care of me sometimes.”
I don’t give her a chance to respond before grabbing my bag and heading toward the door.
Even if it’s the last thing I want to do right now, I have to go to work.