"Tell your uncle you don't want to do it." I try to keep my tone even, which is in complete contrast to the quickening of the blood pumping through my veins.
"I can't do that. Who's going to provide for you and the baby?"
I sit up, resting on my elbows as I stare pointedly at him. Andrés is still standing by the bed, and though he's tall with a solid build, he appears to be shrinking. It's then that it hits me, just how much this job is stressing him. This is not the same strong, confident man I met last summer. This man, whom I once thought of as a tower of strength, is crumbling piece by piece, and now the pressure of the baby has to be making his stress worse.
My throat tightens at the realization. "There are other jobs."
"None that pay this well. We can have a big down payment for a house in a few more months. Don't you want our child to have a yard to play in?"
Again, it's all about the baby. Though I've had my suspicions before, I can no longer deny this baby is the underlying cause of Andrés's stress. He's letting this job break him down all because we got pregnant.
"I like our apartment." I try to sound hopeful, but my voice comes out flat. My gaze circles our small bedroom. Our home is barely big enough for the two of us. Where will we put a baby? The spare bedroom is my art studio, which means I'll either need to give up my passion or we'd need to get a bigger place. A bigger place means more money, more money means more work, and more work means more stress.
"So you don't want our child to have nice things?"
My heart stops beating for an eternal second as I look up into Andrés's accusing glare. How many more people are going to make me feel like shit before I crack? I'm so damn sick of being a passenger on the guilt trip express. When is this ride going to end, or will it be stuck in fourth gear for the rest of my life?
That throbbing in my temple returns with a vengeance, and I'm starting to feel nauseous. The swelling in my ankles is not going down. All I can think of is Why me?
Because of the baby, that nagging voice inside my head answers.
Panic seizes me and my limbs turn heavy as if my veins are filing up with concrete.
I jerk up and pound my fists on the bed. "I don't even want this child!"
Andrés crumbles before my eyes, like a cliff face caught in a landslide. He falls to his knees beside the bed, his eyes watering with unshed tears. He picks up my hand, squeezing it to his chest. "Do you mean that, mija?"
The pain in his eyes is harder to bear than staring into the blinding sun. I look away, feeling a familiar wave of shame wash over me. "Everything was fine until I got pregnant." I look down at my fingers as I twist them in my lap. "Now you're having nightmares, and we have to get married."
"You don't want to marry me?"
"I do but not like this. Everything is being rushed and forced."
"Would you rather wait?"
The sorrow that weighs down my chest is so heavy, I fear I may suffocate. "Yes, but the baby."
Andrés settles his hand on my belly. "Our baby, mija." He speaks with such tenderness, I feel as if my heart may burst into a million pieces. He's cherishing our unborn child, and I'm resenting it. I don't deserve Andrés, and I definitely don't deserve to be a mother.
I sniffle. "I know," I barely manage to say as my throat constricts. I lay back and close my eyes, even as tears slip out from beneath my lashes.
I sigh as Andrés tenderly strokes my cheek. He rubs my belly with the other hand, as if he's soothing our unborn child. The pain from my guilt is so severe now, I imagine it cutting a hole through my chest. I deserve it for admitting I don't want this child.
What's worse is that I'm not so sure I didn't mean it. Though Andrés is five years older than me, I still feel so young, like a baby myself. Now I'm going to be a mother, and the father is always working. Though he says he'll help me, I fear he'll be too busy. I don't know if I can do this alone. And what about my new job? Will I have time to get our design business off the ground? I also fear Tia will be visiting all the time. If she's this pushy about our wedding, I can imagine how she'll be when the baby comes. She'll be telling me how to raise my child, intruding on my life and my sanity.
"What did you mean when you said things are being forced?" My eyes fly open. Andrés's hands have stilled, and his dark brows are drawn together.
Because you're pregnant, Christina, a voice inside me echoes. Shut up! I tell the voice. I was going to marry him, anyway, but not like this. We were going to take our time and plan the wedding we wanted, not the one that's being forced on us. My mom has forced Nora and shrimp puffs. Tia has forced Marie plus more bridesmaids, and now she's trying to make me change my dress.