There’s a crease between her brows I know by heart. “You’re pale,” she says mildly, but her eyes are already sweeping me, inventorying. “Have you eaten?”
“I’m fine. Not hungry right now.”
“Of course.” Her gaze flicks past me to the back door, through the glass to the river. Then back again to my face.
She tilts her head, the crease in her forehead deepening by a millimeter. “Outside?”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Please.”
She studies me for half a beat more, then nods once. “Okay. Let’s go.”
I should tell her now—just blurt it out over the sink. Instead, I trail her down the hall, watch her reach for the cardigan hanging on the peg by the mudroom door, pulling it on and buttoning just one button at the top. She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear and turns to me with an expression I can’t read at all.
We step out through the mudroom to the back porch that faces the river—my favorite place on earth. The chairs out here are old and wide and creaky, the kind of porch furniture that suits casual conversation at the end of a long day.
There’s a quilt draped over the back of one chair. It’s blue and white and looks like the sky and river meeting.
Ben is there, standing by the railing with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, staring at the water like he’s debating whether to walk straight into it. He turns at the sound of the door. His expression when he sees Mom is a whole page of things at once—respect, apology, bracing.
Mom stops short. Surprise flickers across her face—brows up, eyes narrowing, a quick glance at me that scrolls through a whole list of questions.
“Ben,” she says. “Hello.”
“Hi, Gwen.” His voice is steady. It makes the tension in my chest loosen a bit. “Thanks for letting me… for talking with us.”
Mom looks at me, then back at him. “All right,” she says, adjusting the collar of her cardigan. “What’s going on?”
I feel like I’ve swallowed a fist. The ginger in my mouth tastes suddenly syrupy and wrong. I go to the chair with the quilt and grip the top of it like I need help staying upright. The river rushes behind me.
I look at Ben. He looks back and gives me a small nod.
I hear myself say, “I’m pregnant,” and the word hangs there, an invisible rope stretched between the three of us.
Mom doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. She goes so still that for a second, I wonder if I imagined saying it.
Then her mouth softens. The crease between her brows eases. Her hand lifts like it’s going to cover her heart and then changes course, reaching for me instead.
“Oh, honey,” she says, and it’s not pity—it’s warmth, it’s wonder—it’s the exact reaction I didn’t know I needed. “Congratulations.”
I nod, unable to speak, and then I’m in her arms.
She hugs me the way she always has—nothing has changed there. There’s a tiny tremor in her exhale against my hair that sounds a lot like quiet excitement, like she’s trying not to startle a skittish bird.
She leans back to see my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks. “Are you all right? Happy? Scared?”
“All of the above,” I say, and my laugh wobbles. “Mostly nauseated, if we’re ranking.”
Her eyes go bright, a quick, contained spark. “All a part of the experience.” She angles her head toward Ben without letting go of my face. “And you?”
Ben straightens like he’s been addressed by a principal. “Pretty much the same,” he says, voice steady. “Even nauseated sometimes too.” The last word is almost a vow.
Mom laughs again.
Then she squeezes my hands and steps to the chair beside mine and lowers herself. “Okay,” she says gently. “Tell me everything.”
I swallow and reach into my bag for the folder. The glossy strip of black-and-white slides into my palm. I hold it out.
Her breath catches, and she takes the photos like they’re made of spun silk and studies them, mouth curving. “Look at you,” she murmurs to the little crescent. “You tiny show-off.”
