Straight to my stomach.
Her hand follows, gentle but unmistakable, resting on my bump like it has been personally invited.
“Well,” she says softly. “There you are.”
I make a noise that might be a laugh or might be a system reboot.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should probably—”
“Nonsense,” she says briskly. “You should be sitting down.”
She steers me toward the kitchen like this has been rehearsed, one hand still hovering protectively at my side. She lowers me onto a stool with great ceremony, as if I might float away if not thoroughly anchored.
“Rest,” she instructs.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“Yes,” she agrees. “You all say that.”
She turns, surveying the counter, and her eyes land on the fruit bowl.
“Oh good,” she says, delighted. “You’re eating fruit.”
“Yes,” I say. “I was just chopping some.”
“Excellent,” she replies. “Very important. Fibre. Vitamins. Your body’s doing an enormous amount of work right now.”
She nudges the bowl closer to me. Then nudges it again. “Eat.”
I hesitate.
She watches me.
Not aggressively. Just calmly. Patiently. Like a woman who has outwaited many toddlers and at least one stubborn son.
I pick up a piece of apple and take a bite.
“Good girl,” she says, satisfied.
I choke slightly. “Sorry?”
She waves it away. “Habit. I say it to everyone. Don’t make it weird.”
I chew obediently while she bustles about, opening cupboards she already seems to know, peering into the kettle.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask, once I’ve swallowed.
“Yes,” she says. “But I’ll make it. You need to rest.”
“I’m literally sitting.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Stay that way.”
She fills the kettle and flicks it on, then turns back to me.
“Eat another grape.”
I do.
