I kept my voice level. “And it takes me a second.”
My mother’s smile thinned. “Your sister needs to sit.”
There it was.
Not hello. Not how are you. Not you look tired. Not can we pull up another chair.
Your sister needs to sit.
I looked past her. Brittany was standing perfectly comfortably in a pair of low heels, not sweating, not wincing, not carrying thirty-plus pounds of baby and fluid and exhaustion on her pelvis.
“There are empty chairs at the next table,” I said.
My mother didn’t even turn to look. “Get up from that chair right now. Your sister needs to sit.”
The table went silent.
I became aware of every small sound around us: cutlery against china, a burst of laughter from a distant table, the faint hiss of the air vent overhead. Daniel’s hand moved from the back of my chair to my shoulder.
I said, carefully, “She’s only two months pregnant. I’m eight months. I’m staying seated.”
Brittany’s eyes widened theatrically, as if I had slapped her.
