All Children Except Some Grow Up

My mother should’ve spit us up. Well, not all of us, just the twins. The three of us were doing just fine before April and May came along. Spaghetti stretched longer than five days; we each had our own blanket, and I got to sleep in a little longer. June started to wet the bed again. I begged Mama to go see Mr. Phil for more wood. Seems like every time she goes down bottom, she comes home her skirt two inches higher than before, reeking of cardamom and orange peels. “Antoinette! Get up and go get your sister's dress; I need to rest my eyes!” Mama shouted from her room. Mama’s room was the size of a shoebox in a corner nestled between April and May’s forts. Her panties hang perfectly on the wire that divides the room into three. At night when she went to go see Mr. Phil, I’d check for new discoveries. If I got lucky, I found a note from one of her lovers tucked inside her heel. However, last night I found a newspaper clipping underneath her pillow. If it's true, I swear on my soul I will leave and never come back. The clipping read, “Pregnant? Don’t want to be? Call Jane at 643-3844.” I pulled back the yellow linen sheet that separated her fort from my own. “Who’s Jane? And are you pregnant?” Tears filled Mama’s eyes. It was the first time I saw her cry and the last time I saw my sisters. Jane Roe is my superhero; at least she tried what my mother couldn’t. My sister’s died. Their small bodies were found clinging together under five blankets. They froze to death in my fort. Not killing my mother is my only regret.