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My mom glances up from the cutting board. “He’s walking Newton.”
“Oh.”
I scan her serene expression as she continues chopping.
I can’t tell if she knows. I’ve never been able to tell if she knows.
Having been cheated on myself, I can confirm that thewomen’sintuitionthing doesn’t exist. Or if it does, I didn’t have it. I wish someone had told me about Isaac’s philandering so I didn’t have to see it for myself. But this is different. This isn’t a friend; it’s my mom. If she doesn’t know, I don’t want to be the one who tells her.
I fiddle with the stiff edge of the envelope for a few seconds, watching her prep for dinner, then hold it out. “Well, this is for you guys.”
One of her eyebrows lifts as my mom dries her hands on the brown gingham towel on the counter. She lifts the flap and inspects the contents.
At first, her expression doesn’t change. It shifts, bit by bit, as she pulls the sonogram out. Her lips part, and her eyes mist. “Oh my,” she says softly, raising a hand to cover her mouth. “Oh my,” she repeats, swiping a finger beneath her left eye.
It’s the first time I’ve seen my mom cry since we had to put down Newton’s predecessor, Einstein, when I was a junior in high school.
I clear my throat to get rid of the lump, recalling the same surreal moment of seeing my child for the first time. “He—or she—isn’t very big. But you can sort of see its face, I think, rightthere?” I point to the spot the tech indicated during the ultrasound, which looks like a gray blob to me.
My mom sniffles, reaching for the dish towel and dabbing at her nose.
“I cried too,” I admit. “At the ultrasound. We heard the heartbeat, and …” I swallow hard when my mom’s attention jumps from the photo to me.
“We?”
I haven’t made a paternity announcement to my parents yet. I’ve been putting it off, honestly, hoping our relationship would magicallybecome easier to explain before the conversation needed to take place.
“Yeah. We. The father is involved.”
“How involved?”
For some reason, the mural Kit is determined to paint in his professionally decorated guest room is what pops into my head first. No matter how hard I try, it doesn’t fit with the immature playboy puzzle. I thought Kit’s involvement was too much to expect. It never occurred to me he’d beexcitedabout the prospect of parenthood.
I feel guilty for misjudging him, and it comes through in my confident, “Very.”
“Mom, is there more of that cheese you got at—what’s that?” Jane enters the kitchen, carrying a cloud of chemicals with her.
I cough and walk over to the sink to crack the window above it. Then start breathing through my nose, same as I have to do on the subway. Pretty sure I could out-sniff a bloodhound. At least, that’s how it feels.
A gust of clean, cold air blows through the opening, and I inhale deeply.
“It’s your sister’s sonogram,” Mom answers.
“Ooh, let me see!” Jane reaches for it eagerly.
“Not with wet nails, Jane!”
“They’re basically dry,” my sister retorts.
“They don’t smell like they’re almost dry,” I mutter.
“It’s cute,” my sister states, peering over Mom’s shoulder as she frantically wiggles her fingers. “I think. Kinda hard to tell yet. But withthatgene pool …” She sighs dreamily.
I shoot her ashut uplook that my mom catches.
“What gene pool? Jane knows the father? Is he a student at Yale?”
Sorry, Jane mouths.