Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
We haven’t seen them since the barbecue, so when she reached out, inviting us to dinner, we, of course, said yes. Now, I’m regretting it. Hanging out with the woman who resembles Mary Poppins, Martha Stewart, and Paula Deen is not at the top of my list of things I want to do right now.
Since the day is almost over, instead of going back to work, I head home and take a nap. I wake up several hours later to Julian asking if I’m feeling okay and if we should cancel dinner.
“I’m okay,” I tell him, sitting up. “Just give me ten minutes to freshen up.”
When we arrive at his parents’ place, I take in the small but homey-looking house. The front yard is neatly trimmed, and a flower bed with blooming flowers wraps around the house. On the porch are two wooden rocking chairs that I can imagine Helen and Frank rocking in while having their morning coffee.
The inside is even warmer. The walls are filled with family pictures from holidays and vacations. The furniture is clean but well lived in. Unlike the home I grew up in, which screamed wealth and opulence, this home screams love and family.
Helen wraps me in a motherly hug, and I get choked up, missing my mom like crazy—wishing she were here to confide in. She probably wouldn’t have the answers I’m looking for since she died trying to figure out her love life, but at least she would be here to support me.
“While the guys watch the game, do you want to help me make Julian’s favorite dish?” she offers, zero judgment in her tone.
I nod because it’ll probably be good to learn how to cook something, and she’s the only person I know who can help me.
“Mom, Ana doesn’t like to cook,” Julian says, trying to get me out of it.
“No, it’s fine,” I tell him. “I’d like to learn how to make your favorite dish.”
He looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Really, babe? You hate sports that much that you’d rather cook?”
“Go away,” I say playfully, pushing on his chest.
He grabs my hands and pulls me in, giving me a quick kiss before he disappears out of the kitchen, and I’m left wondering what will happen to us once he finds out about the baby. We’ve never discussed having a family—well, aside from the time he jokingly said he wouldn’t mind having a couple of mini versions of me running around.
It’s only been us and the company. I don’t even know if he wants kids … oh God. What if he doesn’t want kids? He was counting on me to keep us safe, and my stupid IUD failed. It’s not my fault, but that doesn’t change the fact that he might not see this baby as a good thing.
Will he divorce me and leave me as a single mom? Will I be forced to choose between my husband and my baby?
My hand protectively goes to my flat stomach, knowing there would be no choice. I would choose this baby every time. I shake all the thoughts from my head, refusing to give in to what-ifs. Thinking about them all could drive a sane person crazy.
“I thought mac ’n’ cheese was Julian’s favorite,” I say when I notice all the meat and veggies spread all over the counter.
“He has a few favorites,” Helen notes with a wink. “When he’s sick, he loves homemade chicken noodle soup—heavy on the noodle, light on the veggies. At barbecues, he loves mac ’n’ cheese with a good burger, but his favorite home-cooked meal is lasagna. So, we’re making lasagna tonight with a salad.”
She washes her hands, so I follow suit.
“Lasagna is actually super easy to make,” she says. “The first thing we want to do is make the tomato sauce.”
When she pulls out a bunch of spices and sets them next to fresh tomatoes, I immediately know I’m in over my head. This woman doesn’t even use tomato sauce out of a jar.
I watch as she adds all the ingredients to a pan, explaining what each one is, as if I’m seriously going to remember this later. Once that’s simmering, she goes about cooking the ground beef. When she notices that I haven’t said a word in several minutes, nor have I attempted to help, she stops what she’s doing and looks at me.
“Ana, are you okay?”
I try to nod, but instead, I shake my head, and then I lose it, right here in my mother-in-law’s kitchen.
She pulls her apron off her and envelops me in a hug, and I cry softly in her arms, not wanting to alert Julian that I’m a sobbing mess.
When I’ve calmed slightly, she sits us at the table and says, “Talk to me, dear.”
“I can’t cook,” I choke out. “I can’t cook or clean or do laundry. I mean, I’m smart. I have a degree and a master’s, and I can do numbers all day, but I can’t even follow along with a simple lasagna recipe while you walk me through it. And the truth is, I don’t want to. I hate cooking. I don’t find it fun or enjoyable, and I have no desire to do it,” I admit, the words flowing out like a therapeutic river.