Ruth gives me prenatal vitamins and a book on childbirth that I’m definitely not reading.
Lev and Dima go together—a knife. Small. Razor-sharp. Russian-made.
“For protection,” Dima says.
“It’s a birthday party, not a mobster convention,” Jasper mutters.
“Every party is a mobster convention when you’re with us,” Lev replies.
Mateo gives me a framed photograph. Black and white. A woman’s hands cradling her pregnant belly. Artistic. Beautiful.
“For when you’re ready,” he says. “I’d love to photograph you. Maternity shoot. Whenever you want.”
I stare at it. At the intimacy captured in the image. “Thank you.”
Jasper’s last. He hands me a small box.
I open it.
Inside: a necklace. Delicate gold chain. A tiny charm in the shape of a rolling pin.
I burst out laughing. “A rolling pin?”
“You’re a baker. You’re going to be a mom. You’re rolling things out—dough, life, whatever.” He shrugs. “It felt right.”
I put it on. It sits perfectly at my collarbone.
“I love it,” I say.
“Good. Because I can’t return it.”
Everyone laughs. The room feels warm. Full. Alive.
And I realize something.
This is my family now. This bizarre collection of people who shouldn’t fit together but somehow do.
A grandmother. A nurse. Two Russian enforcers. A fashion designer and his photographer boyfriend.
And me. Pregnant. Thirty. Waiting for a man who might not come back.
But not alone.
Never alone.
“Make a wish,” Grandma says, lighting candles on the cake.
I close my eyes.
Come home. Please just come home.
I blow out the candles.
Everyone cheers.
51
Mary
