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Jamie chuckled. She didn’t know her mother knew what a muffin top was.
“And we want to live long enough to know our grandkids,” Mom added.
Jamie’s laughter immediately silenced. If only they knew.
The sound of coffee percolating in the kitchen roused Jamie from sleep. She rolled over and yanked the colorful afghan from its usual place on the back of the couch, trying to block the noise so she could get more sleep. The kitchen soon filled with the sounds of shuffling feet, banging cupboards, and popping toast, and it was no use.
She sat up and stretched before moving to sit on one of the stools at the countertop bar. She watched her mother’s morning rituals. Growing up, Mom had always been up at dawn, preparing breakfast—toast, eggs, and coffee for Dad before he left for work, toast and tea for Jamie before school. And she was still at it, though Dad was now retired. Jamie couldn’t contain her smile when a plate of toast and cup of tea with a little milk and sugar were placed before her.
The comforts of home were exactly what she needed right now.
The aroma of Dad’s eggs wafted her direction, causing a sudden wave of nausea. She took a couple of bites of her toast and a sip of tea, hoping it would settle the queasiness, but the scent of the eggs was overwhelming. She abruptly dropped the mug on the counter with a clink and bolted across the house to the bathroom.
This was so inconvenient. How could she possibly photograph the weddings she had scheduled in July? She’d be rushing to the bathroom, or worse, tossing her cookies in the middle of the ceremony. How humiliating and unprofessional that would be. Another reason to end this now.
When she cleaned up and returned to the kitchen, her mother stood still as a statue, staring across the room at her.
“What?”
“How far along are you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She picked up her partially eaten toast and nibbled.
Mom walked across the room and stood on the other side of the bar until she made eye contact. “Jamie Eloise, you be straight with me.”
When her mother gave her the look and used her middle name, she knew she couldn’t lie.
“A couple months.”
“And the father?”
Jamie returned the toast to her plate. “He doesn’t know yet.”
“Is that why you’re here? Running away?”
She shrugged her shoulders. Of course, it was.
“That never helps, you know.”
She knew.
“What are you going to do?” There was no judgment in Mom’s voice, which was one of the reasons she knew coming home would be a good idea. Her parents had never judged her for her decisions—even when she was a troublemaker in high school. They were patient with her, probably because they were older when she was born and had more life experience under their belts. They were good parents, giving her the freedom to figure out who she was with the right amount of discipline to keep her from going crazy with her independence.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Do you want to talk to someone?” Mom asked.
“Like who?”
“Our pastor?”
Jamie’s face screwed up. “Since when do you go to church?”
“Since earlier this year when we decided we needed it.”
“Is this some kind of late-life crisis?”
“Hey, your dad and I have a lot of life left to live.”