I’d walked into our bedroom. Opened the closet. Reached for my leggings.
The hangers were empty.
All of them. Rows of empty plastic hangers. Swaying slightly when the door opened.
I stood there for a long moment. Staring.
I checked the dresser. The drawers where I kept my maternity tops and my nursing bras and my compression socks.
Empty.
I checked the laundry basket. Empty.
I checked the bathroom hook where my robe hung. Gone.
All that was left were two faded T-shirts in the bottom drawer. Nick’s old ones. The ones I’d been sleeping in. One from a 5K in 2019. One from Iowa State.
And my scrubs. The ones I was wearing.
That was it.
I found Nick downstairs making a sandwich.
“Nick,” I said. “Where are my clothes?”
He barely looked up.
“I gave them to Tara.”
I stared at him.
“You did what?”
“Gave them to Tara,” Nick said. He put the top slice of bread on his sandwich. “She came by this morning. While you were at work.”
“You gave her my clothes. My maternity clothes. The ones I’m wearing. Right now. Every day.”
“She’s pregnant too,” Nick said. “She’s struggling financially. You know that.”
I put my hand on the doorframe. My back was screaming.
“Nick,” I said. “I told her she could have them after I deliver. After Nora’s born. In July. I said that in front of your whole family on Mother’s Day.”
He shrugged.
“You’re almost done being pregnant anyway,” he said.
“I’m thirty-four weeks,” I said. “I have six weeks left. Six weeks, Nick. Maybe more. First babies are usually late.”
“So?”
“So what am I supposed to wear for the next six weeks?”
He took a bite of his sandwich.
“You’ll figure something out,” he said.
I couldn’t believe his indifference.
That’s what got me. Not even the clothes. The way he said it. With his mouth full. Not looking at me. Like I was complaining about the weather.
You’ll figure something out.
“Call her,” I said. “Call Tara. Right now. Ask her to bring them back. She can have them in July. Like we agreed.”
Nick put his sandwich down.
“No,” he said.
“No?”
“I’m not calling my sister and asking for clothes back,” he said. “That’s embarrassing. She’s going through a hard time, Anna. Her boyfriend left her. She’s working at a grocery store. I’m not going to make her feel worse.”
“They’re my clothes.”
“Stop making such a big deal out of a few outfits,” Nick said.
He picked up his plate.
He walked into the living room.
He turned on the TV.
I stood in the kitchen for a long time.
A few outfits.
Thirteen hundred and eighty dollars. Forty-two items. I knew because I’d counted. Because I’m a nurse and I count things.
A few outfits.
I didn’t yell.
I didn’t cry. Not yet.
I quietly went upstairs.
I stood in front of my empty closet. I took out my phone. And I photographed it. The empty hangers. The empty drawers. The two faded T-shirts in the bottom drawer.
I don’t know why. Instinct, maybe. Seven years of nursing. If it isn’t documented, it didn’t happen.
Then I sat down on the edge of the bed.
And I messaged Tara.
Hi Tara. Nick told me he gave you my maternity clothes this morning. I think there’s been a misunderstanding — I still need them for the next 6 weeks until Nora’s born. I promised you could have everything after, and I still mean that! Could you please bring them back for now? I can drop them off with you the week after I deliver. Thank you! ❤️
I read it three times before I sent it. I wanted it to be kind. I didn’t want her to feel bad. She was pregnant and alone and struggling.
I sent it.
Her response came eleven minutes later.
It was strange.
You need to talk to Nick.
That was it.
Five words.
No sorry. No of course. No oh no, I didn’t realize.
You need to talk to Nick.
I called her.
It rang four times. Voicemail.
I called again.
Voicemail.
I texted. Tara? What do you mean? I did talk to Nick. Can you call me?
Delivered.
Not read.
I sat on the edge of the bed in my scrubs with my phone in my hand.
Something was wrong.
I didn’t know what. But I knew it. The way you know when a patient’s monitor is about to start beeping. Before it does. Something in the air.
Worried about my green dress, I checked Tara’s Facebook Marketplace profile.
I don’t know why I thought to look. Maybe because Tara’s always selling something. Leggings. Candles. Old furniture. She’s been doing it for years. Side hustles.
I opened Facebook. I searched her name. I clicked on her Marketplace listings.
My stomach dropped.
There were my maternity clothes.
Listed. With photos. Taken on what looked like Tara’s bed. On a gray comforter.
Maternity dress — navy blue — size M — like new — $30.
My blue dress. The one I wore to Nick’s cousin’s wedding in March.
Maternity cardigan — oatmeal — super soft — $20.
My cardigan. The one I wore every night in the hospital break room because it’s always freezing.
Maternity blouses — lot of 4 — $40.
My blouses. All four of them. Laid out in a row.
Nursing pajama set — gray — never used — $35.
Maternity leggings — lot of 6 — $45.
Maternity scrubs — 3 sets — size M — $50.
My scrubs. My work scrubs. With the stretch panels.
Listed three hours ago.
