I stand. Pregnant. Chosen. Steady.
In the Palm Court, SJ collapses into his chair immediately and kicks the table leg. “I’m bored.”
Ivy leans in conspiratorially. “There will be cake.”
He brightens. “Okay.”
Theo and Jasper sit opposite each other with the resigned expressions of men who have accepted that their lives now involve children, feelings, and women who don’t take nonsense.
Geoff sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. His knee presses lightly against mine, grounding, familiar. My stomach shifts, the baby making its presence known, and, without thinking, he rests his hand there for a second. Protective. Casual. Ours.
Elizabeth pours tea like this is a daily ritual and not something out of which people make a personality trait.
She looks at me.
“So,” she says gently, “how are you feeling?”
I consider deflecting. Then decide not to.
“Good,” I say. “Overwhelmed. Happy. Slightly terrified. And very aware that I can’t see my feet.”
She laughs softly. “All excellent signs.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. Firm. Certain.
Then, as if that small moment of sincerity needs balancing out before the universe gets ideas, Elizabeth Corbin straightens in her chair and claps once.
“Right,” she says. “Theodore, stop pretending you don’t know which teapot is yours. Geoffrey, sit up. You’re not in a pub. And Jasper, if you steal another cucumber sandwich, I will stab you with this fork.”
All three men freeze.
Jasper blinks. “Mum, I was not stealing.”
“You were hovering,” Elizabeth replies. “It’s the same thing with worse manners.”
Geoff straightens automatically, shoulders back like he’s been summoned by muscle memory alone.
“Yes, Mum,” all three of them say in perfect and deeply suspicious unison.
Ivy chokes on her tea.
Miranda presses her lips together, shoulders shaking.
I watch this unfold with a strange mix of delight and relief. No matter how tall they get or how successful or intimidating or broadly competent, they are still her boys. Still line-managed. Still mildly afraid.
Elizabeth reaches for the milk.
“And Theodore,” she adds, not looking at him, “do stop sulking. You’re forty-three, not fourteen.”
“I’m not sulking,” Theo mutters.
“You are,” she says. “I can tell by the angle of your jaw.”
Lucy watches this exchange with wide, fascinated eyes.
Slowly, deliberately, she straightens in her chair.
She lifts her chin.
She points a tiny finger at Theo.
