AFTER THE THIRD dollar store pregnancy test, I asked Miranda what I should do about it. On a piece of stationery bordered by dancing teddy bears, she wrote out a list in her puffy script: Natural Cures, double underlined in pink. The scented marker made my underwear drawer reek like bubblegum for days.
I followed Miranda’s list like gospel. One hundred jumping jacks before breakfast. Loads of parsley. Mug after mug of strong black coffee. (“Since when do you like coffee?” asked Aunt Ruth. “Since always.”) As the caffeine cartwheeled around my system, I’d swim violent lengths at the community centre.