I was at home, being the absolute homebody that I am, when I got a text from my friend. “Are you pregnant?” We talked about eyebrow tinting, and I was my quirky self; I didn’t see how the two correlated. I reply and say, “no.” I didn’t hear from her until the following morning. She said, “J’s baby mother posted about a gender reveal, so I assumed it was you, and I got excited.” I’m laying down in my bed, shocked. “Please show me because I’m confused.” A few seconds later, my confusion turned into anger. I played it off like it didn’t bother me. Like my feelings weren’t hurt. Deep down, devastated. Not because he was expecting but because he never told me. He hid this for months. We talked for six months; he got someone pregnant in the first two months of us talking. So many opportunities to come clean, and I had to find out from an excited friend.
Anyone that knows me knows I want to have a baby. He always told me, “we can’t have a baby right now, Ivelisse.” I respected his wishes and did what I had to do. Gutted, I cried. I texted him, and then I sent a voice message cursing him out, rightfully so. Everything clicked, why he would disappear, the inconsistencies, the overly guilty conscience. I genuinely loved him and cared so much about him and his daughter. I did everything I could to make him feel loved, cared for, and understood. In return, I looked like a fool. He didn’t love me, he loved what I could do for him, the idea of me, and he wanted a baby, just not with me. My tears will dry on their own, and my heart will heal. The world is full of J’s, but they are no match for me and my resilience.