Free The Solomon Sisters Wise Up by Melissa Senate Page A

if the list of what it cost to raise a baby was accurate. And if it was accurate in anywhere, U.S.A., it was even more expensive in New York City.
    D was my only option. Since I hadn’t suffered from morning sickness once, perhaps my luck had turned after all. No one at work would have to know I was pregnant until it was obvious. I could work my butt off for the promotion. And according to But I Don’t Know How To Be Pregnant!, I had a good four to five months before my belly swelled to showing proportions.
    A woman wheeled a baby carriage past my bench and I put down But I Don’t Know How To Be Pregnant! for a peek at the results of pregnancy. The baby was sleeping inside what looked like a tot-sized sleeping bag. The sleeping bag was navy blue, so I assumed the baby was a boy. He looked very peaceful. He wasn’t crying at the top of his tiny lungs or passing gas or pulling his mother’s hair. The woman sat down at the far end of my bench, smiled at me and pulled a paperback book out of the diaper bag hanging on the push handle. It wasn’t a book on babies or how to stretch your salary. It was a novel. She gently rocked the carriage with one hand and turned pages with the other.
    A peace came over me, a cuddly, warm peace, and I touched my belly.
    And then, from the other side of the playground, a baby screeched so loudly that it woke up the baby near me. The woman put down her book and picked up the infant and hugged it to her, shushing and cooing. The baby wouldn’t stop crying.
    “Are you hungry?” the woman singsonged to the baby. “Still tired? Too hot? What? Tell your mama what’s wrong.”
    The baby wailed. The woman tried a bottle. The baby turned red. She burped the baby. The baby wailed louder. “Well, if you’re hot, Nicholas, we have to go home. It’s too cool out to take off your fleece bundler.”
    And so she put the wailing Nicholas back into the stroller. The moment she moved the stroller, the baby stopped crying. “You just wanted to keep moving, huh, Nicky-wicky?” the mother singsonged, blowing kisses.
    She forgot her novel on the bench. I picked it up and ran after her. She turned around and looked at me as though I were handing her a paper towel or a leaf. “Like I’ll ever have time to read half a page,” she said with a laugh, thanked me, and then continued wheeling Nicky-wicky around the playground.
    Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath.
    I lunged for my cell phone and called Lisa and told her that my baby’s first year would take one third of my salary.
    “That’s what baby showers are for,” Lisa said. “My sister had a shower and got two car seats and two playpens. She won’t have to buy baby clothes for a year. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
    Somewhat relieved, I went back to But I Don’t Know How To Be Pregnant! and read for another half hour. I skipped the section on breastfeeding out of pure fear, then realized that breastfeeding was free and started reading.

5
    Ally
    T he things you found in your husband’s pockets and drawers when you knew he was cheating on you made you wonder if you’d been blind, an idiot or simply in total denial. Evidence of Andrew’s indiscretions were all over our bedroom, his office, even the downstairs bathroom’s little wicker trash can, which contained one well-buried used condom.
    The last time Andrew and I used a rubber during sex was thirteen years ago.
    Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!
    And I was a fool, fool, fool.
    How could I not have noticed a used condom? A pair of panties that weren’t mine? Lipstick stains on his shirts from colors I didn’t use?
    In the dry-cleaning hamper (in four of his pants pockets), I found:
    Six women’s phone numbers, including a Ginger who dotted her i with a smiley face.
    Three hotel room receipts, two in the city and one here in Great Neck.
    Two Victoria’s Secret receipts.(I hadn’t received a lace teddy from Andrew for years.)
    Six florist receipts—red roses.
    Under our bed, next to a