Page 91 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

I go inside and tell Rizzo it was the smell.

It's not a lie.

At the end of the shift, my feet hurt and my head feels like it sat under a loud light for hours.

I walk home because the cold helps.

The dark SUV is parked a block down with the engine off.

I have seen the same shape twice this week.

It does not move when I pass.

It also does not leave.

I unlock my door and stand inside the threshold until my heart slows.

Mom calls just as I hang up my coat.

Her voice is the sound of Sunday kitchens and a hundred small instructions.

“I’m downstairs,” she says. “I brought soup. Buzz me up.”

She does not wait for me to argue.

I buzz her in and clear the table.

She comes in carrying a paper bag and a pot wrapped in a towel.

The smells of chicken and lemon fill the apartment.

She kisses my cheeks and sets the pot on the stove.

She looks around like she is checking a hotel room, then nods.

“Sit,” she says. “You look pale.”

I sit.

She ladles soup into a bowl and brings it to me with a plate of toasted bread.

I take a spoonful.

It tastes like when I was sick and my uncle told me the ovens would cure me faster than any medicine.

I don't realize I'm crying until my mother’s hand is on my wrist.

“What is it?” she asks. Her voice is gentle and sharp at once. “Tell me now.”

I have been rehearsing silence for weeks.

The words come out anyway. “I took a test,” I say. “I’m pregnant.”

She exhales and reaches for the chair across from me.

She sits down hard and then reaches over to grip my hand.

“Are you sure?” she asks. It's automatic. I nod.