"Oh. Sorry." I set the fork down, careful not to make any noise and deflect. "Richard invested in some new technology that's supposed to reverse aging by ten years."
"Lydia doesn't need it," Richard jumps in, putting his phone down for once. "Her genes are why I married you."
Mom grins, swatting him with her French-manicured hand, and he winks at her.
Honestly, they should just marry each other and spare me the third-wheel charade.
Mom repositions her napkin and shifts in her seat. "Speaking of genes. You two really ought to move out of the city. That city box can't be good for you."
My brow arches. "Two thousand square feet is a box?"
"But when you have children?" she presses. "They'll need a garden."
My eyes must do something dramatic because she instantly pivots to Richard. "Youareworking on them, aren't you?"
"Mom!" I hiss, leaning over the table. "That's private!"
"It's not," Richard cuts in and puts his phone on the table, next to his dumplings. "It's a family matter, and I agree with Lydia."
The betrayal punches straight through me, and I slump back into the seat. "Huh? Since when? Didn't you call your little niece a whiny stink bomb?"
He dabs his mouth, composed, like he didn't hear it. A shrug. "I just think children would complete the package."
My lips purse as I stare at him, stunned. Not 'You'd be a great mother' or 'I love you so much I want to have a mini-you.'The package.Like I'm some accessory that comes with the house, the car and the chandelier.
Mom doesn't care how it sounds, she starts filling in for Richard and painting the picture with her hands.
"Absolutely. Family photographs, matching outfits, a home by the ocean. You guys will be picture-perfect."
Richard nods along, smiling at me. "You will write when you have time."
The salad curdles in my mouth. I push my plate away and level him with a flat look. "Whenever I have time? Writing isn't a hobby for me, Richard."
He rolls his eyes dismissively. "You're not Nabokov. Youwrite heartbreak romance, and there's too much of it in the world already."
Wow. Unbelievable. And out of all people, in front of my mother?!
I scoff, slap my napkin on the table, forget about wiping my mouth on it first, and snap, "I don't want to have children."
The table stills, chopsticks hanging midair.
My mother's mouth hangs open as she sets the dumpling back on her plate.
Meanwhile, Richard stares long enough for the air to feel haunted.
"Well, that's news to me," he says finally, his tone glacial.
It's news to me too because I do want kids—just not with a man who checks out before the first diaper. Not if they'll have to decode love from absence the way I used to. Not if they'll inheritthis.
"Dessert?" I ask, but it's the devil asking—I could never pull off that wicked smile with it.
Richard won't order it. Plus, he must be late for work.
Sure enough, he checks his watch.
"Excuse me, Lydia. I have to go. Please come visit us again soon," he says, kissing her powdered cheek.
When it's my turn, he kisses the space beside me, then flips open the checkbook and scratches out a line. 30% tip on a meal he barely touched.
