Emily Giffin - Baby proof

I see a loophole and am tempted to buy myself some time. I could "think about it" for years and then just say that I'm off the pill. I could get us to forty and hope for infertility to kick in. Solve the problem naturally. But I refuse to be dishonest. We have no relationship without honesty. So I tell him the truth-that I'm not going to change my mind.

Ben seems to ignore this statement altogether and instead asks me for another reason.

I humor him and say, "Okay. I like living in the city."

He sits up in bed and says, "We can have a baby in the city."

I admire the silhouette of his shoulders as I say, "Not very easily. We'd need to get a bigger place, and we can't really afford to do that."

"Well, don't you ever feel like you're sort of over living in Manhattan? We both grew up in the suburbs, after all. Wouldn't it be nice to return to our roots? Have a yard again? Trees and squirrels and some peace and quiet?"

"Okay, now you're talking crazy," I say. "We love living in the city."

"I know, but-"

"I don't want to move," I say, feeling panicked just thinking about it. I have visions of Volvos and PTA meetings and camcorders at soccer games and family dinners at the Olive Garden. Now I am sitting up, too. "I'm not going to move to the suburbs ."

"Fine," Ben says, nodding. "We could have a baby in Manhattan. People do it all the time. We would just find a bigger apartment and make it work financially. So that's not a valid reason. Name another."

I exhale loudly and say, "Okay. My career."

I have saved the big guns for last. I have worked way, way too hard to jeopardize everything for children. I've seen it happen many times, even to the editors who are determined to stay on the fast track. They have to leave work early, they can't sacrifice their weekends, and they inevitably seem to lose their edge, their hunger. It just happens that way. I don't know why that is-whether they've reprioritized or simply don't have the energy to do better. But I don't want to find out… and I certainly don't want to join the ranks of seemingly miserable working mothers who strive to have it all and end up frustrated, exhausted, and guilt-ridden.

"What about your career?" he says, all innocence.

"A baby would impact it," I say.

"I told you-I can stay at home for a while. Or we can hire a nanny. You don't have to quit your job. You don't even have to go part-time. There are lots of working moms out there. You can have both ."

"But I don't want both. See? That's the thing you don't seem to get. Having both means doing nothing very well."

"But you'd be an awesome mother, Claude," he says.

"I don't want to be a mother," I say with as much conviction as I can muster. "I'm sorry if that makes me selfish. But what I think is way worse-way more selfish-is having a child when you're not fully committed to the idea of it. And I'm just not on board with this plan of yours, Ben."

"Not now?" he says, reclining again.

"Not now," I say. "And not ever."

Ben shoots me a frosty look. Then he shakes his head, rolls away from me, and says into his pillow, "Fine, Claudia. I think I'm all clear now."

The following morning we get ready for work in silence. Ben departs first, without kissing me good-bye. Then he refuses to return any of my messages during the day. I'm so distraught that I cancel an important lunch with a high-profile agent, and then I'm short with one of my sweetest, most diligent authors on the phone for being late delivering a manuscript.

"You do realize that if you don't get this to us soon, there will be absolutely no way we'll be able to get bound galleys out to reviewers, right?" I say, hating the strident tone in my voice.

One of the things I pride myself on at work is that I never take things out on people-not my assistant, nor authors. I hate people who let their personal life bleed into their profession, and I think to myself that if even the mere conversation about children impacts my job, I can't imagine the carryover if I actually had one.

That night, I reread a manuscript and realize I don't adore it as much as I did when I first bought it. It is a quirky love story-and I can't help but wonder if my change of heart has to do with what's happening in my marriage. I panic to think that this is the case. I desperately don't want to change. I don't want my life to change. I fall asleep on the couch, worrying and waiting for Ben to come home. At some point, I hear him stumble into our apartment and can feel him standing over the couch. I open my eyes and look at him. His hair is mussed, and he smells of bourbon and cigarettes, but he still looks hot. I have a sudden, crazy urge to just pull him down on top of me and make out with him. Cigarette breath and all.

"Hi," he says, somehow managing to slur a two-letter word.

"Where have you been?" I say softly. Out.

"What time is it?"

"Two-somethin'."

Then he makes some crack. Something about wanting to reap the benefits of a childless life. I notice that he used the word childless and not our old term- childfree . I am suddenly angry again.

"Real mature, Ben," I say as I get up and walk toward the bathroom. "Get wasted when the chips are down. Solid move for someone who thinks he'd make a swell dad."

It is a harsh, unfair thing to say. Ben is anything but irresponsible. But I don't take anything back. I just let the words hang in the air between us.

Ben's eyes narrow. Then he clears his throat and says, "Fuck you, Claudia."

"No, fuck you , Ben," I say, moving past him and slamming the bathroom door behind me. My hands shake as I unscrew the toothpaste cap.

As I brush my teeth, I replay our exchange. It is a first. We never say things like that to each other. Although we've had heated arguments, we never resort to name-calling or swearing. We've always felt superior to couples who engage in that sort of battle. So our fuck yous become an instant symbol of our impasse-and of our impending split. It may sound melodramatic to hinge a breakup on a couple of harsh words, but I can't help feeling that this is our point of no return.

I spit out a mouthful of toothpaste, wondering what I should do next. It must be something significant, something more significant than sleeping on the couch. I have to mention the word divorce or leave our home altogether. I round the corner to our bedroom, fumbling in the closet for my largest suitcase. I can feel Ben watching me as I haphazardly shove clothing into it. T-shirts, underwear, jeans, and a couple of work outfits. As I frantically pack, I feel as if I am watching myself in the role of angry wife.

At some point, I change my mind. I don't want to leave my apartment in the middle of the night. But I have too much pride to reverse direction. It feels utterly foolish to pack up a bag and then stay. It's like hanging up on someone in a self-righteous huff and then being the one to instantly call back. You just can't do that. So I calmly walk to the door, suitcase in hand, hoping Ben will try to stop me. I bend down, holding my breath as I put on my sneakers, double-knotting my laces, stalling to give him a few more seconds, time to formulate an apology. I want him to kneel before me, take everything back, tell me how much he loves me. Just as I am.

Instead, he says, cold as ice, "Good-bye, Claudia." I look into his eyes and know that the end has come. So I have no real choice but to stand up, open the door, and leave.

The sole benefit of leaving your husband in the small hours of the morning is that it only takes a nanosecond to get a cab. In fact, I have my choice of two, both converging upon me at the corner of Seventy-third and Columbus. The cabbies undoubtedly spot my suitcase and think that they're getting a good airport fare, so as I climb into one, I say, "Hi, there. Sorry. I'm only going to lower Fifth." Then I blurt out, "I just had a big fight with my husband. I think we're getting a divorce."