Walking along the sidewalk a few days before my parents’ October anniversary, I count out the months until my April birthday – a little over six months. It is 1975, my mom is clad in bell bottoms, and I am eight years old. Hmm. Wait. I try the math again. How can this be?

In response to my query, my mother confirms my discovery. She tells me they were in love. A small, cocktail wedding was organized within months of her pregnancy, and she wore an A-line dress (apparently, no one noticed). I was born a week late, but my parents told people I was early. She says they were so excited when I was born.

I mull over this. I have been raised to tell the truth and I am a little shocked to be the cause of a massive lie. At the same time, I have a warm feeling inside me. I am special. 

Years later, I will learn more from my mother’s sisters. They remember their older sister going into the bathroom one evening, running the faucet of the old-fashioned footed tub, and hearing her loud sobs over the water. The next day, my mother is once again in the upstairs bathroom, this time looking out the window into the backyard. She watches my father approach her parents, his biceps bulging against his short sleeves from his summer job working pipeline. I picture my mom, birdlike, safe upstairs in her bathroom nest. My father speaks to her parents and there is a long pause. Then an embrace and sigh of relief. 

My dad fell in love with my mother when he saw her cross a campus bridge. She was wearing a red coat and her shiny black bobbed hair stood out from the snowy background. He maintains it was love at first sight. They dated for a year before she discovered that she was pregnant. To me, it sounded just like a fairy tale. 

I am a love child.

***

When I am fifteen, my mom starts talking about going back to school or having another child. She makes it sound like an “either”, “or” decision. I encourage going back to school. I use practical arguments like, a family of four can stay in one hotel room, and a baby would tie us down. Mom enrolls in a few high school classes, and I figure my arguments worked. She has made her choice. 

A few months later, my parents sit my ten-year-old sister and me down to tell us we are going to have a sibling. At fifteen, I am shocked and embarrassed. I feel too old. My friends, however, are thrilled with the baby news. Eventually, I relent and share in the excitement. When Brooke is born, my friends have the principal announce her birth over the intercom and I enjoy brief fame walking the school hallways.

People assume Brooke has been “an accident” when they hear that my mom is pregnant at age thirty-nine. My mom and I share a conspiratorial smile. 

I am a love child.

***

The sun sparkles on the snow edging the sidewalk and my nostrils sting in the cold, dry air as I settle my baby sister into the stroller. Her pink cheeks match her pink snowsuit, and she bounces her feet at me when I tell her we are running a few errands.

An older woman slows as she approaches us. The woman’s lips purse in disapproval and she asks if the baby needs a blanket on top of her winter coat. She stares at me intently and I know she wants more. 

Not a welfare case. A young, single mother?

The last time we were stopped I told the passer-by that this adorable child was my baby sister and she smiled in relief. I was wondering.  You are so young.  

This time I refuse to reward another busy body.  I feel indignation rise up inside of me as I muster the best motherly smile my sixteen-year-old self can come up with and say: Yes, I am the mother, then move past her. 

I feel no remorse at my lie. I am tired of people judging the age and circumstances of motherhood. My mother was young and unwed when she became pregnant with me, still I felt loved and wanted. 

 I am a love child.