“You know…” she begins, that casual tone that isn’t casual at all, “some women start their healing journey the second they bring the baby home. You know, worried about their husbands finding them…” Her eyes flick deliberately to my stomach. “Revolting.”
My teeth grind, but I keep chewing. I take a huge bite, look her dead in the eye, and swallow before answering.
“So, what you’re saying is… you think your son is so shallow he’ll leave me if I look like I just had a baby.” I pause, smile thin and sharp. “Which I did.”
She backtracks immediately. “No, of course not, it’s just… you’ll feel more confident. And maybe cry less in the shower if you feel good in your own body.”
My pulse stutters, but I keep my face sweet, polite, proper. “I didn’t realize you were listening so deeply.”
She shrugs, unfazed.
“Kind of a surprise you ignored your granddaughter’s crying then, huh?” I say, tilting my head with a sugar-sweet smile.
The silence that follows is thick enough to chew.
I get halfway through my plate when the cramping starts, low and sharp. I pause, take a deep breath, and press my palm against my stomach.
Chloe just watches me. “You have a really low pain tolerance, don’t you? Matthew said you had an epidural.”
I stare at her, words drying on my tongue. The urge to ask why she feels the need to tear me down burns in my throat, but before I can open my mouth, the front door swings open.
Matthew steps inside, hair dishevelled, shoulders slumped, looking like he’s the one that just gave birth.
Chloe jumps up the second the door opens, her glass clinking on the table as she sets it down. “Matthew,” she says, voice bright, almost triumphant.
I stay seated, plate balanced on my lap, every muscle tight. My first instinct is to rise, to go to him, but no. Not this time. I’m still annoyed he left.
Matthew looks at his mother, then at me. His eyes flicker, guilty, tired. He runs a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “Hey,” he says, softer, to me.
I just take another bite of my sandwich, chewing slow, my gaze steady on him. Let him squirm.
Matthew
Brooke just stares at me like I’m gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Before I can get a word out, Ma says, “Let me get you some water,” and bustles off toward the fridge.
I sink onto the sofa beside Brooke, the weight of the day dragging at me. “I’m sorry,” I begin quietly, turning toward her. “Something came up at work and I-”
Ma reappears with a bottle in hand, cutting me off. “There’s no need to apologize. We understand you have responsibilities, don’t we, Brooke?” She smiles thinly at Brooke as she passes me the water.
I gesture at Brooke’s plate. “I’m glad you’re finally eating.”
“A toasted sandwich, just the way she likes,” Ma adds.
I smile at her, grateful she cut her day short to stay with my girls while I went to fight for my job.
“Speaking of,” she says, “let me make you one too.”
I shake my head, once she’s gone. “I really am sorry. If I had a choice…” My words trail off.
Brooke studies me. “Is everything okay with work?”
I run a hand through my hair and sit back. “They hired a marketing director.”
“What?”
I nod. “Apparently a buddy of Hughes or Knore’s. I can’t even tell at this point.”
“But your job’s safe, right?” she asks carefully.
