“That’s not a problem. We’d be more than happy to set up a team for you there when we get closer to your due date.”
That’s an option. At least I’d know the doctor wasn’t a hack. “That might be an option I’d like to explore.”
“Noted. We’d also like to do some genetic testing in a few more weeks. It isn’t a requirement, but it will give us a clearer picture of your son.”
“Genetic testing?”
“Usually, it checks for rare diseases and syndromes that your child may have. Ours were developed by Dr. Rothswyler many years ago, so they’re a bit more in-depth, as you know. We just like to do everything we can to ensure your child is healthy as he grows.”
They checked the embryo before they implanted it in me. Do I really want to know everything that might be wrong? I fought so hard to have this baby. Every fiber of my being screams no. But the doctors don’t want to hear that. “I’ll think about it.”
But I probably won’t. There are so many other things for me to think about.
Like his sweet little smile. And the dimples on his cheeks.
My son has dimples.
***
“You’re late,” Mother says as I sit down at the table.
The maitre d’ slides in the chair for me, pretending not to have heard a thing. But we both know he’s heard more secretsthan most priests do in their whole lives. This man we know will take them to the grave with them. Just like his father did before.
“My appointment ran longer than expected.” I’m barely three minutes late, but even a moment of inconvenience is too much for my mother to handle in silence. “How are you, Mother?”
“Disappointed. You were missed at the fundraiser last night. We could have used your help.”
More like my donation. “Attending all those events just isn’t feasible since I moved.”
“Then move home. It was a foolish idea to move to that hick town in the first place. This is where you belong. Your father is worried.”
No, he isn’t. He doesn’t even know the town where I’m living. If he had been worried, he would have actually come to visit once. “It’s a perfectly safe neighborhood.”
Mother sniffs, but leaves it alone. “We’ve made arrangements for the child to attend the same boarding school as you did. They are now accepting students at the age of five. Your father had to make a donation, but he got the child a spot.”
Five. She wants my son to start boarding school at five. “Thank you, Mother.”
“Of course. Only the best for our grandchild. Did you hear Darrel actually married that woman? She’s practically a child. Everyone is talking about cutting him.”
Talking about and doing are two different things.
“When we had him and his family over for dinner last week…”
Of course, they had my ex over for dinner. I zone out as she talks about every detail of the meal.
Why did I say yes to having lunch with her?
The waiter sets our plates on the table. Mine is a crudité while Mother has sea bass with vegetables and some sauce.
“Did the waiter get our orders wrong?” Because this definitely isn’t a lunch.
“No. That’s what I ordered you. You’re looking a little plump. Pregnancy is no excuse to get fat. How will you find a father for that baby if you let yourself go? I’m going to reach out to your nutritionist again and have her lower your calories.”
What? “Did you ask her to lower them already?”
“Of course. Sometimes I think you don’t understand what it means to be a mother. I’m always looking out for you, even if you don’t think so. As soon as you got pregnant, I had her increase your protein intake but decrease your calories.”
She put me on a diet…
