Daniel’s jaw flexed. “Don’t start,” he murmured, not to me, but to himself.
I braced my hands lightly on the chair arms as they approached.
My mother swept up to our table as if she were making a grand social call instead of invading a private meal. She air-kissed my cheek without actually touching me, then looked me up and down.
“Well,” she said. “You look ready to pop.”
“Good to see you too, Mom.”
My father gave me a shallow nod, already scanning the table. Brittany stood beside him in a blush-colored dress, one palm still on her stomach, her expression pinched.
“You didn’t stand up,” my mother said.
The accusation came so fast and so flatly that for a second I thought I had imagined it.
I looked at her. “I’m sorry?”
“To greet us,” she said. “You didn’t stand.”
I glanced down at my body, at the mound of pregnancy stretching the fabric across my belly, then back up at her face. “I’m eight months pregnant.”
“And?” she asked.
Daniel straightened beside me.
