Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“I’m just anxious,” my mom said with a shrug as she cooked dinner. “And excited, too. You should have taken more pictures.”
“I didn’t want to come off as creepy,” I told her for the hundredth time. I’d been able to get two photos of Etta, one when she was playing on the floor in their house and one when she was stepping into the pool in her swimsuit, but I hadn’t taken any more. Morgan had seemed pretty laid-back, but honestly, those two photos had made me feel like a creeper because I hadn’t asked to take them. I wasn’t sure how the mama bear would feel about that if she knew.
“She looks just like Hen,” Mom said, repeating herself. “I can’t believe how much. Her mom must not have very strong genes.”
“She’s blond, too,” I reminded her as I pulled some plates down and started to set the table. “She doesn’t look like Hen, but she’s not his opposite, either.”
“I wouldn’t have cared either way,” Mom said quietly. “But it’s nice, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” I thought about how beautiful Morgan was. Etta definitely wouldn’t have lost anything if she’d looked more like her mother. Henry and Morgan must have looked like a couple of movie stars when they’d been out together. The thought made my stomach sour.
“What’s pretty cool?” my aunt asked as she and my uncle let themselves in the back door.
“How much Henry’s baby looks like him,” my mom answered, grinning. “It’s uncanny.”
“No kidding,” my aunt replied, setting a dish filled with something that smelled like heaven on the counter. She’d seen the photos dozens of times, too. She and my mom had studied and scrutinized them over and over, talking about how happy and healthy the baby looked, what her body language might have meant, and what dolls she seemed to prefer based on the toys in the photo.
It was like they’d turned into private detectives, body language experts, and child psychologists overnight. And if I was being honest, it was getting a little annoying. They talked about Etta a lot, but they didn’t mention her mom much. I knew it wasn’t deliberate because they had no frame of reference, but I’d seen her. I’d seen why Etta was so happy. Why she seemed fearless in the pool and perfectly happy playing by herself on the floor. That was all Morgan’s doing. She was raising that fearless, happy kid.
Whenever my mom mentioned how Henry was fearless at that age—he wasn’t—or how he played by himself—he didn’t—I’d had to grit my teeth against the need to argue. My mom was still grieving. She was remembering Henry the way she wanted to, as the happy and confident kid he’d become later, after years of living in a stable home with loving parents. Why would I take that away from her? I wouldn’t. Not in a million years.
“Have no fear, Arielle is here!” Ani called as she carried Arie into the kitchen Lion King–style, the baby squealing in delight as Ani held her high. “And we’re starving.”
“I brought beer,” Bram said, exhaustion clear in his voice. “I’ll put it in the cooler.”
He shuffled past me with nothing but a head nod. From what I’d gathered when I’d seen him at work, Arielle wasn’t sleeping at night. Ani and the baby were able to catch up on some of that rest during the day while he was at work, but he’d been pretty much falling asleep at his desk all week. It didn’t look like he’d gotten much rest over the weekend, either.
“I’m crossing my fingers that she sleeps this week,” Ani announced, putting Arielle into one of the high chairs next to the dining room table. “At some point, she’ll get tired enough to sleep, right?”
“She’s still giving you trouble, huh?” Aunt Liz asked, smoothing down Arielle’s hair as she moved around the table.
“Yeah. Her pediatrician said this phase is normal, but holy shit. I’m about to drop.”
“You?” Bram asked with a huff. “You’re napping during the day.”
“Barely,” Ani snapped. “If you think that I’m sleeping all day, your head is so far up your—”
“Children,” my dad said in warning, shutting them both up. “Know you’re both tired, know you’re both grumpy, but hell if I’m gonna listen to it. Figure it out at your own house.”
I chuckled, then grunted as Ani elbowed me in the side as she strode past. My dad and uncle had both made it perfectly clear that they didn’t want to deal with any of the kids’ relationship problems during family dinners. It wasn’t a new thing.
Any other day of the week and the older men were ready and willing to listen and offer up advice. All of the older generation were like that. However, at dinner on Friday, you were expected to leave all of that nonsense at home. Even when we were kids, we hadn’t been allowed to argue at the table.