The Choices We Make by Karma Brown Page B

to react the way I wanted to—which was to shout at him to use another word other than no .
    â€œYou don’t get to veto just like that, you know.”
    He bit his bottom lip, rolling it under his teeth and taking a deep breath as he stared at me, staring at him. “And you don’t get to toss out an idea like that without talking to me about it first.”
    â€œIsn’t that what we’re doing here?” I asked, sighing with frustration.
    â€œLook, this is not the time or place, Kate. We’re going to go over there, order some ice cream and hang out with our kids, and we’ll talk about this later.”
    â€œFine,” I said, turning and walking toward the ice-cream shop.
    I’m not sure how I’d expected him to react, and I knew how unfair it was to bring it up like that—at a time when we really couldn’t discuss it—but it still pissed me off. As retorts of “my body, my decision” tickled my lips, I forced them back knowing what a bullshit response that would be. Of course it wasn’t my decision alone—David had to be on board if this was going to happen.
    So I needed to figure out how to get David on board.
    * * *
    Much later, after ice cream, showers for the girls, and barely two words exchanged between David and me, we sat in bleached wooden chairs—from my mom’s garden patio set—on the rooftop balcony off our bedroom, tumblers of red wine sitting on the table between us untouched.
    Sounds of car horns and passersby and a baby crying out an open window a few houses down surrounded us, offering a reprieve from the uncomfortable silence that comes when the angry things you want to say are still mercifully inside—where they can’t do damage to anyone but you.
    â€œI’m sorry I didn’t bring it up before I went to see Dr. Kadari.” In retrospect, sharing this giant decision with my gynecologist—who I saw once a year—before my husband was probably not the best idea.
    â€œIt’s not about that,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass but still not taking a sip. He put the glass back on the table and stretched out his legs, crossing them at his ankles. One flip-flop was slightly askew, but he didn’t seem to care. “It’s that you even thought it was a real option.”
    I swallowed hard, willing myself to discuss this calmly. “Okay, so why couldn’t it be a real option?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know. Maybe because we have our own daughters to think about. Or the fact that we have busy lives, and you have said more than once you don’t want to have more kids?”
    â€œBut this baby wouldn’t be my baby, our baby.”
    â€œYou’re delusional if you think that’s true,” David said, his words clipped with frustration.
    I tried not to cry, in part at the nastiness of his tone, in part because I wanted him so desperately to see it from my perspective—something that was looking less and less likely with every passing minute. I drained my glass and then took David’s.
    â€œWell, cheers to you at least being willing to listen to my side of things,” I said, lifting his tumbler up and taking a huge gulp of wine.
    â€œKate, I don’t want to fight with you—”
    â€œThen don’t!” The last sip of wine—its tannins bitter in the back of my throat—choked me, and I coughed violently. David turned sharply to look at me but didn’t say anything or ask if I was okay.
    Once I’d stopped coughing, with another sip of wine—my buzz growing but not dulling the flurry of emotions I was experiencing—I said, “I don’t want to fight, either.”
    David nodded and took his tumbler from my hands, having a sip of the nearly empty glass. “Are you even sure this is something Hannah and Ben would want?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow? Have you talked with her about it?” His voice was