"Emma, sweetheart. How are you?" Her voice has that hesitant quality it always does, like she's testing the waters before diving in.
"Good. Really good, actually. Work's been?—"
"That's wonderful, dear. Listen, I was hoping you'd come for dinner tomorrow. We haven’t seen you in way too long."
My stomach clenches. Sunday dinner at my parents' house. The weekly ritual I've been successfully avoiding since I started showing—too much work, feeling under the weather, prior commitment with Poppy, etc, etc. Mom and Dad have also been traveling some, so that’s helped.
"Tomorrow? I don't know, Mom. I have a lot of?—"
"Please, Emma." Her voice shifts to something more urgent. "It's been too long. You know how your father gets when he feels ignored."
Yes. I know exactly how he gets.
Explosive. Controlling. Determined to reassert his authority over every aspect of my life.
"What time?" I hear myself ask.
"Six o'clock. I'll make one of your favorites—that chicken dish with lemon and rosemary."
Of course she will. Mom's love language has always been food, the one area where Dad lets her make decisions without interference.
After we hang up, I sink onto my work stool and press my hands against my stomach. At sixteen weeks, the swell is undeniable when I'm naked or wearing anything fitted. But under the right clothes, I can still hide it.
For now.
I’m just not ready to tell them yet…
My phone buzzes with a text from Grant.
Grant:That's fantastic news about Vance. Dinner tonight at Mazziati’s to celebrate?
I stare at the message, weighing my response. I should tell him about tomorrow. About dinner with my parents. About the fact that I'm going to spend an entire evening in the same house as my father, while hiding a secret that would make his head explode.
But telling Grant will make him worry. Or worse, he'll want to come with me and tell them about everything, and that's something I can't even contemplate yet.
Me:Rain check? I want to finish this formula while I'm in the zone.
Grant:Of course. Let me know if you need anything.
Me:Just you. Later. ;)
Grant:Always.
I set the phone down and try to refocus on my work, but the vetiver oil smells wrong again, and my concentration is shot.
Tomorrow. Sunday dinner. I just have to get through one meal without my father realizing his daughter is pregnant with his best friend's twins.
How hard can that be?
The answer, I discover as I stand on my parents' doorstep Sunday evening, is extremely hard.
I changed outfits four times before settling on a navy-blue high-waisted dress—loose enough to hide the small swell of my stomach, but not so shapeless that it looks like I'm deliberately trying to hide something.
The door opens before I can knock. Mom stands there in her usual Sunday evening uniform—cream slacks and a silk blouse, pearls at her throat, her graying hair styled in the same elegant bob she's worn for twenty years.
"Emma." Her smile is warm, but her eyes do a quick scan—checking for signs of whatever it is she's worried about. She gives me a quick hug and I make sure not to let her get too close. I don’t need her detecting my baby bump. "Come in, sweetheart."
The house smells like lemon and rosemary, just like she promised. But underneath that, I catch the familiar scent that I've always associated with this place—furniture polish and expensive candles and something indefinable that makes my shoulders tense.
