Then it was dinnertime, and then the sun set, and I was
alone again in my haunted house. I was thinking about all of
Amy’s lies and whether the pregnancy was one of them. I’d
done the math. Amy and I had sex sporadically enough it
was possible. But then she would know I’d do the math.
Truth or lie? If it was a lie, it was designed to gut me.
I’d always assumed that Amy and I would have
children. It was one of the reasons I knew I would marry
Amy, because I pictured us having kids together. I
remember the first time I imagined it, not two months after
we began dating: I was walking from my apartment in Kips
Bay to a favorite pocket park along the East River, a path
that took me past the giant LEGO block of the United
Nations headquarters, the flags of myriad countries
fluttering in the wind.
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