When you’re used to having it all, having a baby just isn’t enough.
I had left a city of consumerism where it was unconstitutional to not be selfish. I had left an apartment in one of the best London suburbs and a smoulderingly sexy SMEG fridge. I had left behind Paris for the weekend and Rome the next. And most importantly, I had left a job that allowed a year off for maternity leave; half of that paid. I had left my zone. How could this have happened? How could my life have changed so dramatically in one moment of passion … a totally cliché-free moment of passion, I might add, that didn’t involve a romantic hut on a beach on an exotic island. Not even close.
I wasn’t meant to be pregnant. What I was meant to be was gainfully employed, living it up on champagne and oysters in my new chi-chi townhouse on Table Mountain with a shiny new coupe in the garage.
Somewhere in a parallel universe there was a chick with my life. And I hated her.
Related posts:
