At the Antenatal Class

My mother, who was 17 when she had me, went to an antenatal class alone when my father refused to go with her. She told me that she felt morbidly out of place and judged. She never went back.

She kept telling herself, "I am iron.

I could smash down the walls

and leave them under rubble if they said anything!

I am definitely not scared."

Her hand betrayed her,

peeling away from the doorknob,

sticky sellotape. She frowned at it,

"Iron, remember?"

Sunlight streaked through the windows

of the community centre,

shining on the faces of men

who were wrapped around their wives

like foil around school dinner sandwiches.

Every woman's belly was as tight and round

as an oil drum, the contents just as precious.

Their chatter came as easily as their laughter

and it all stopped the minute they saw her.

A cold finger of sweat slid down her back

and she was no longer iron.

What the hell was she thinking?

She joined the circle, staring hard hard at the floor,

trying to avoid looking into the collective eyes

of this Greek chorus in twinsets and pastels.

"Of course there would be one!"

"Where are her parents in all this, I wonder?"

"Of course she's come alone!"

She had never felt so young and so old.

She had never felt so ashamed.

She hated them for that most of all.

Only at the bus stop would she permit

her stinging eyes to stream.

A hollowed-out tube, she told herself

"Never again."

Reviews

[SquinklaPsyOps]

It sounds like a voice in her head was trying to stop from ridding the bus, it could have been a psyops radio.