Two Young Women Find Themselves Pregnant at the Same Time—By the Same Man

Within weeks of each other, a preppy grad student and a tattooed musician, both struck by crushing grief, sit in the same clinic beside the same philandering artist, waiting for the same procedure.

As a result of our new partnership with the pioneering Creative Nonfiction magazine, we’ve been devouring their vast and remarkable archives lately, which has been a real treat. So much so, that we’ve decided to start featuring some of our favorite Creative Nonfiction Classics, and this piece instantly struck a chord: The unusual predicament the writer finds herself in, the clear and honest way she writes about herself as a young woman and reflects on her situation with the hindsight of today, the generosity and kindness she offers her younger self. I found myself thinking about it while I brushed my teeth before bed and while I went for walks in the early, chilly mornings. I shared the story with friends over lunch and gushed about it to my family over dinner. When the idea to start publishing pieces from the CNF archive came about, this one seemed like an obvious choice to start with. We’re so glad to be giving this powerful and beautifully written essay, originally published as “The Same Story” in CNF’s 75th issue, a new home and another audience. Enjoy! —Jesse Sposato, Narratively Executive Editor

Illustration by Ayun Halliday

In this story, two young women are pregnant at the same time by the same man. One of the women is a musician and a writer and a feminist, and she sports tattoos and body piercings before they are cool. The other woman is an outdoorsy graduate student and a feminist, and she wears J. Crew sweater sets and Mary Janes. The musician calls the graduate student “Miss Goody Two Shoes.” The graduate student calls the musician “The Slut.” I am one of these women, or was, and now I realize that it doesn’t matter which one. What matters is that the man is let entirely off the hook by two young women who call themselves feminists.

Though both the musician and the graduate student could tell you stories, I can tell only mine: I was 24, and my father had recently died. Daddy worked hard at being a writer and a drinker, but was successful only in the drinking. He shouted at me when he drank, but he was Daddy, so I loved him. I was just starting to be adult enough to reconcile the complicated feelings I had for my father, but he died before I realized his drinking did not mean he didn’t love me. He died feeling like he had failed me. And that has always made me feel that, really, it was I who failed him.

I met the man, an artist and a writer and a drinker, three months after my father’s death. The way things happened to that 24-year-old now seems very clear. For six months, I drew with him at the community art center and swapped stories and poems with him. He was almost 10 years older. I drank with him, and I slept with him when he wanted me to. Frequently, we shouted at each other. I broke up with him when he told me to fuck off or asked me things like, “Who do you think you are? Do you think you’re special?” I wasn’t sure who I was, entirely, but even though I had grown accustomed to my father’s shouting, I had a small idea that perhaps I was someone who didn’t deserve to be yelled at. But then again, I wasn’t sure about anything, so we’d soon get back together and start the whole mess of a thing again.