Page 63 of Baby for My Ex's Brother

He laughs, and so do Gerty and Fred. Marty says, “We all were. Think about it—your parents were older. Your sister was… well, we all know what Star is. Your grandparents were very much older. Everyone thought they were done with babies. There were no hand-me-downs to be had. No bottles still tucked away in the attic. They had to start everything from scratch. Again. A decade after the last time.” He clasps his hand over mine. “You were a wonderful surprise, but even wonderful surprises come with odd logistics.”

“When you put it that way, I guess I get it. It’s just…” My heart is already cracked wide open. Might as well go all the way. “I never felt welcome in my own home.”

“Oh, kiddo,” Fred says, taking the other hand. “I can’t speak for them, but you knew you always had a home here, right?”

I bob my head, my tears welling. “Always.”

Gerty wipes a tear away. “That’s our good girl. Now, eat up. You’re eating for two, so take as much as you want. Do you want my plate?”

I chuckle. “No, I’m good, thanks.”

We finish up lunch, and I head back. Parking is a bear for some reason, so I have to find a spot a few blocks away. Maybe it’s because I’m used to taking the train to work, and I don’t know what parking is normally like in the middle of the day. Maybe it’s always this bad.

My poor customers.

On the walk back to the shop, I pass the baby clothing store on the corner of Archer and Wentworth. I’ve been passing it for years without looking in. I had no reason to check them out before now. Baby things were always for someone else’s life. I ignored it the way I ignore sporting goods stores.

But today, I peer in.

Small winter things line the display. A tiny yellow coat, mittens on a wire, a onesie with a crescent moon on it that is extremely my brand, and I cannot tell if that’s fate or marketing. I stand at the glass for a long time, not deciding anything, not shopping, just looking at the world through the window, scaled impossibly small.

I’m going to be someone’s mother.

The thought keeps breaking my brain in new ways every time I think it, and today is no exception. I know how it happened, but I still keep asking myself,‘How did this happen?’

But life doesn’t have to make sense, so neither do the questions I ask myself.

When I pull myself from my wandering mind, the world seeps in at the edges. A car slows at the curb behind me, idling. A man stands near a car down the block, also watching the windowfrom a different angle, or maybe looking at his phone. There’s a woman with a fabulous coat on, strolling down the sidewalk like she owns it. The coat is a little heavy for the weather, which makes me wonder why she’s got it on at all.

What’s she hiding?

It’s funny—I never noticed that kind of thing before being with Ivan. I’m not paranoid normally. My version of normal is me, stuck in my head with my thoughts. But today, I notice all these people being odd.

Or, she’s strutting her shit down the street in that coat because it’s fabulous and she’s happy to suffer for fashion. That’s not odd to most people, I’ve learned. It’s odd to me because if I’m not comfortable, then I’m cranky, so I don’t wear a heavy coat on a warm day, no matter how fabulous it is.

The car moves on after a moment. The man is gone when I look again. Since I noticed Ivan’s tail, I might be a tad paranoid these days. He wouldn’t do it again, would he?

There’s no way he’d do that. Ivan might break a guy’s foot for ripping him off, but ignore a woman’s consent? Never.

I think about the tiny yellow coat in the window for another minute. A coat for a person who doesn’t exist yet, who will need a coat that small eventually in this city. Should I buy it?

The thought makes my stomach flip, so I don’t. I’m not ready to go into nesting mode just yet, so I go back to the shop.

Mike has reorganized the display again. Cherry is adjusting it back toward coherence.

There’s a rhythm here that runs without me when it needs to and with me when I show up, and I stand in the doorway of the shopI built with grief money and stubbornness. I watch my people and think about risotto and family.

The shape of my life. Simple. Normal. A life I built that I love. And soon, I’ll be adding to it.

Mike looks up and gives me the smile that costs him nothing and buys everything. “Good lunch?”

“Really good lunch,” I say, and take my apron from the hook.

Cherry, without looking up from the window, asks, “How’s Marty?”

“Stirring food, listening, and doling out advice,” I say. “Per usual.”

“Best kind of person.”