At the shop I bought yellow socks for my sister's baby. The saleswoman had known me since school and smiled the way people do when they think they already know how a sentence ends. She congratulated me. I thought she meant the wedding, which had been two months earlier. I thanked her, paid, and left, unaware of how much space I had left between two different assumptions.
By noon my aunt had called. She asked why she was hearing such news from a neighbor. I said I did not know what she meant. Her voice immediately grew wounded. She did not believe there was something she did not know; she believed I was deliberately hiding it from her. I explained the socks three times. Finally she said I should take care of myself anyway and ended the call.
My husband Alen heard from the man changing his tires. He came home confused and asked whether I had planned to tell him something special. His question hurt more than my aunt's. We had been married two months, and already a stranger's sentence could sit between us before my own voice did. I told him that if I had news like that, the tire mechanic would not be delivering it.
Alen suggested immediately announcing that it was a mistake. I picked up my phone, then put it down. Why should we have to announce anything about it? I did not want acquaintances judging whether I was too angry, sufficiently convincing, or perhaps merely unhappy about a question they should never have asked. I wanted to finish my working day and visit my sister with a small gift.
I returned to the shop the next day. The saleswoman said she had only shared good news. I explained that the news had not existed. She seemed surprised by my seriousness, as though I had rejected a kindly meant bouquet. Two women were waiting behind me. One began explaining how she too had kept quiet for a long time with her first child. Then I understood how difficult it is to escape a story in which everyone wants a sentence of their own.
I did not stay to argue. Alen asked his family to stop calling with questions, and I did the same with mine. Some believed us immediately. Others kept glancing toward my stomach for weeks, increasingly discreetly as time passed. My sister's baby outgrew the yellow socks faster than the rumor disappeared.
One evening Alen arrived carrying a large bag from the same shop. Inside was a blanket for my sister's older boy. He said he had clearly explained at the register whom he was buying it for. For the first time I laughed about the whole thing. Then I asked him to show me the blanket, an ordinary object that might finally remain only what it was.