She was furious about the pregnancy. Not worried. Not disappointed. Furious. Like I’d done it specifically to embarrass her. She told the women’s group I had “a medical condition.” She told our neighbor Miss Brenda I was “going through something.” She never once touched my belly.

Never once asked me how I was feeling. Never once said the word “baby.”

Then the Wednesday night in July. She came home from Bible study. She put her Bible on the kitchen counter — the leather one with her name embossed in gold on the cover — and she looked at me standing by the refrigerator, eight months along, belly so big I had to lean back to balance, and she said it.

“Get your things and get out of my house. You are a disgrace to this family and to God.”

I said, “Mama, I’m eight months pregnant. Where am I supposed to go?”

She said, “That is not my problem. You made your choices.”

I packed a garbage bag of clothes. I took the $23 from my nightstand. I carried it all to my 2004 Honda Civic in the driveway. Cracked windshield, passenger seat stuck at a 90-degree angle, AC that only worked on the lowest setting.

I backed out of the driveway. She was standing at the screen door. She didn’t wave. She closed the door before I reached the end of the street.

I drove to the Walmart parking lot on Poplar Avenue. I parked under a light pole because I was alone and pregnant and it was Memphis and I was terrified. I reclined the driver’s seat as far as it would go and I tried to figure out how to sleep with a belly that felt like it was trying to escape my body.

The seat belt buckle dug into my hip. The steering wheel pressed against my stomach. Memphis in July is ninety-three degrees at nine PM with humidity that sits on your chest like a wet blanket. I cracked the windows. I couldn’t run the engine all night for the AC.