Sarah takes them with a warm smile. "This is very thoughtful. Really. Thank you." She touches her still flat stomach. "And I'm sorry about the mess. We're still settling in and morning sickness has been absolutely brutal. I was actually napping when you rang the bell."
"I'm so sorry we woke you," Lily says, already backing toward the door, already retreating. "We should go. Let you rest."
She's moving before Sarah can respond, before Henry can say anything else hurtful, before the situation can get any more uncomfortable.
I follow her out, the door closing behind us with soft finality.
Outside, the afternoon sun feels too bright after the dim interior. Lily walks quickly to the car, her shoulders rigid, her face carefully blank in that way that means she's holding everything in by sheer force of will.
All the joy from the store is gone. Erased. Replaced by hurt and embarrassment and the particular kind of pain that comes from being rejected by family in the place that used to be home.
I wait until we're both in the car, doors closed, privacy restored.
"Wanna go eat something?" The question comes out on impulse, driven by the need to fix this somehow, to restore that happiness I saw earlier. "We missed lunch."
She looks at me, surprise flickering across her face before settling into something grateful. "I could eat."
I drive us to Pilsen, weaving through traffic with the kind of automatic precision that comes from years of driving in this city. The neighborhood transforms as we cross into the predominantly Mexican area, vibrant colors blooming on building facades, murals covering entire walls with explosions of art and culture and pride.
The taqueria I have in mind is small, family-owned, the kind of place you only know about if you live nearby or someone who loves you brings you there. Bright yellow paint on the exterior. Hand-painted signs advertising specials. A small outdoor area with mismatched tables and chairs, each one painted a different cheerful color.
We sit outside at a corner table, both of us positioning our chairs to face the street, our backs to the building.
Our legs touch under the small table, knees brushing, and neither of us moves away from the contact.
Lily's mood starts to shift as she reads the menu, her shoulders gradually relaxing, interest replacing the hurt in her eyes. I watch her face as she scans the options, seeing the exact moment when she decides what she wants, when that small spark of anticipation returns.
We order. Carnitas for her, the pork braised until it falls apart. Al pastor for me, marinated in chilies and pineapple. Extra lime. Extra cilantro.
The waitress brings our drinks. Horchata for Lily, Mexican Coke for me.
"I'm glad to see you smile again," I say, watching the way her lips curve up slightly as she sips her drink. "I was starting to miss your dimples."
She blushes, the color rising in her cheeks again but this time from pleasure rather than embarrassment. Her hand rises unconsciously to touch her face. "It's silly to be upset. Of course they want to choose their own things. Every parent wants that."
She pauses, looking down at the bright yellow table. "I just wanted to make sure the baby has what it needs. Essential things." Another pause, longer this time. "And honestly, I was afraid if I gave Henry cash, he'd gamble it away. At least with actual items, the baby gets what the baby needs. He can't bet away a onesie."
The admission costs her something. I can hear it in her voice, the guilt and fear and old resentment all tangled together.
"You did the right thing," I say, meaning every word. "That baby is lucky to have you as an aunt. You'll take care of them the same way you take care of everyone else. You'll be a great mother someday."
She looks down, suddenly shy, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Thank you."
Then she looks up, meeting my eyes directly. "What about you? Do you think about being a father? You seem like you're always taking care of people too. Making sure everyone's okay. Making sure things run smoothly."
The question catches me completely off guard, hitting something I thought I'd buried years ago.
I think about how much to share. How honest to be. How much truth I can offer without revealing things I've never told anyone.
"There was a time I thought I'd have it all," I say finally, choosing my words with care. "Wife. Kids. The house with the white picket fence. The whole picture."
I pause, looking past her at the street, at people walking by living their ordinary lives. "But that was a foolish youth dream. It ended when she decided she wanted that dream with someone else and left."
The words taste bitter even fifteen years later.
"There's still time," Lily says gently, her voice soft with compassion. "You could still have that. You're not that old. How old are you?"
"Forty."
