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In April of 1971, my parents sat me down at the dining room table and delivered the horrifying news: I would no longer be the only child in the family.

I said nothing. Rain pounded our windows, and our lights blinked off and on. When lightning zapped a nearby tree, I jumped a good inch off my chair. It was the first serious thunderstorm of the year.

Mom did all the talking. According to her, she was already four months along. Dad, who normally did all the talking, pulled a napkin free of its holder and dabbed at the sheen of sweat across his upper lip. He looked from one corner of the ceiling to the other, as if anticipating a leak to start any second. He was a roofer; a leak was something he could fix.

If you liked this, see. . .

• “Brecious,” by Etgar Keret
  Miriam Schlesinger, Translator, Summer 2009
• “Of the Poet’s Youth,” by Erin Belieu, Summer 2005
• “Bad History,” by W. T. Pfefferle, Fall 2006
• “An Appreciation of Alice Munro,” by Margaret Atwood
  Lisa Dickler Awano, Compiler and Editor, Summer 2006
• “An Elliptical Essay on Violence,” by Edward Falco, Spring 2010