“You do. It’s shaped like a comma. Very grammatical.”
A sound escapes me. Half-snort, half-laugh. Entirely undignified.
Jasper grins. “There she is.”
I shake my head, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Left. Right. Left. Right. Simple. Manageable. Not thinking about Anton or Moscow or the twelve days stretching ahead like an endless highway.
Just walking.
We walk in silence for a bit. Then I see them.
Kids. Everywhere. Running, screaming, laughing. A toddler faceplants in the grass, gets up, keeps running like nothing happened.
Jasper makes a noise. Somewhere between disgust and resignation.
“What?” I ask.
“Children. They’re so… sticky.”
“They’re cute.”
“They’re biological nightmares wrapped in primary colors.” He watches a little girl chase a butterfly. “Okay, fine. That one’s moderately adorable. But only because she’s not screaming.”
A woman pushing a stroller walks past. She’s maybe thirty, hair in a messy bun, wearing yoga pants and a shirt with spit-up on the shoulder. She looks exhausted. Happy. Real.
“Excuse me,” she says, stopping near us. “Do you know if there’s a bathroom nearby?”
“Um.” I blink. “I think there’s one by the pavilion?”
“Thank you.” She smiles. Glances at my stomach. “How far along?”
My hand moves there automatically. “Ten weeks.”
“Oh, still early! Congratulations.” Her baby starts fussing. She rocks the stroller absently. “First one?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s terrifying and amazing. You’ll be great.” She waves and keeps walking.
I stand there. Frozen.
Jasper nudges me. “You okay?”
“She just… assumed I’d be great.”
“Because you will be.”
“She doesn’t even know me.”
“She knows you’re standing in a park on a beautiful day, even though you probably feel like death. That’s pretty great already.”
Tears prick my eyes. I hate hormones.
We keep walking. Pass a playground. A dad is pushing his daughter on a swing. She’s laughing so hard she can barely breathe. He’s grinning like she’s the best thing he’s ever made.
I stop walking.
“Mary?”
