“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“For not trying to save me,” I reply. “Just… standing with me.”
Addison straightens, taps my desk twice like punctuation. “Always.”
She starts to walk away, then pauses, glancing back over her shoulder. “Also, you’re leaving on time today. Doctor’s orders.”
I blink. “Since when are you my doctor?”
“Since you stopped sleeping and started pretending decaf is a personality trait.”
I smile despite myself as she disappears into the noise of the newsroom. The cursor on my screen still blinks, patient and waiting. I lift my hands to the keyboard, and this time, I type.
At five p.m. sharp, Addison sticks to her word and kicks me out of the office. I let her win because I don’t have much work anyway, and head home.
I step into my apartment, kick my heels off by the door, bag slipping from my shoulder as I take in the scene in front of me. There are shopping bags everywhere. On the couch. On the dining table. Lined up neatly along the hallway wall like they’re waiting for inspection.Oh no, not this again.
Pink. Yellow. Neutral tones pretending they’re not excited. I close the door slowly.
“Mom,” I call out, voice already edged with suspicion.
She pops her head out of the kitchen, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, wearing the same cardigan she’s worn every winter since I was a teenager. “You’re home!”
“I am,” I reply dryly. “Why does it look like a baby store exploded in my living room?”
She beams. “I was restrained.”
I snort. “You call this restrained?”
“Yes.” She grins, bustling over, pulling me into a hug that smells like fabric softener and cinnamon tea. She’s warm and familiar and solid in a way that still surprises me sometimes, like I never quite adjusted to the idea that she stayed when my father didn’t.
“Come,” she says, already tugging me toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll show you everything.”
Everything turns out to be… a lot.
Tiny socks. Onesies folded with surgical precision. A mobile she insists is gender-neutral but is very clearly adorable. Books. So many books. Parenting books, baby books, books about what to expect when your expectations are completely unrealistic.
Ever since I told my mom I’m expecting, she’s been supportive in the best way. All marriage talk went out the window, and now more than ever, she’s excited to be a grandma, and it’s showing.
“I might’ve gone a little overboard,” she admits, arranging a stack of board books by color. “But it’s your first.”
“It’s also my apartment,” I point out gently.
She waves a hand. “Details.”
I sink onto the couch, exhaustion finally catching up to me, and watch her flit around the room with an energy I don’t currently possess. There’s something deeply comforting about her enthusiasm, even when it borders on overwhelming.
She stops in front of me, hands clasped, expression softening. “How was work?”
“Busy, but in a good way.”
“The award stuff?”
“Still unreal,” I admit. “I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.”
She nods, then hesitates, her gaze dropping briefly to my midsection. “And… you?”
