Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Breastfeeding our baby.
My ribcage tightens again, and my heartbeat skyrockets. I still can’t believe that this is real, that what I’ve wanted for so long is finally happening.
Sara willingly having my child.
The two of us as a real family.
My happiness is so absolute it’s terrifying. I can’t remember ever feeling like this before: overjoyed and deeply uneasy at the same time. All I want to do is grab Sara and lock her in a fortress, or barring that, wrap her in a padded safety suit and carry her with me everywhere, lest she and the baby get hurt in any way.
“To our first grandchild,” Lorna says, lifting her champagne glass, and I force myself to smile as I clink my glass against hers, then Chuck’s, then Sara’s. All three of them are grinning and laughing, completely caught up in the joy of the occasion. I should be too, but for some reason, I can’t let go of the worry that hangs over me like a malignant cloud.
Something feels off, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.
Someone’s phone dings with a notification, and Chuck puts down his champagne before reaching into his pocket to glance at the screen. “Twelve dead now.” He looks up, the smile gone from his face. “What a shame we had to find out about our grandson on such a dark day.”
“Could be a granddaughter,” Lorna says, but she sounds somber too.
Maybe this is it. Maybe this is what’s bothering me.
It is a dark day—for Ryson and his colleagues, at least. For me, it’s potentially a cause for celebration. If Ryson’s been blown to pieces, he’ll be out of our hair for good. It does worry me that Sara and her parents are upset, though.
Stress is not good for pregnancy.
“Come, ptichka. Have a seat.” I carefully steer her to a chair by the kitchen table, and then I go into the living room, where the newscaster is loudly speculating on which terrorist organization may have been behind the attack. I look at the images of the burning building for a second, then power off the TV.
I don’t need Sara listening to this in her condition.
I return to find Sara’s parents in the foyer, getting ready to go. “Are you coming tomorrow as well?” Lorna asks Sara as she picks up her bag. “I was thinking the two of us could have some tea while Peter helps your dad set up that new receiver.”
“Yes, of course,” Sara says, grinning. “You know I’ll be there, Mom.”
“Good.” She pecks Sara’s cheek. “Now get some rest, honey, okay?”
“Will do,” Sara says dutifully, and I nod, smiling, as Lorna pointedly catches my gaze. She doesn’t believe her daughter for a second, but she knows me well enough to realize that I will make sure said resting happens.
“See you tomorrow,” Chuck says to me gruffly, and to my surprise, he pats my shoulder as he shuffles toward the exit.
“Have a safe drive home,” I say, and then I’m baffled again when Sara’s mother gives me a brief but warm hug before following her husband out.
I wait until the door closes behind them before turning to Sara. “Did they just—”
“Officially accept you as part of our family?” She beams at me. “Why yes, I believe they did. Congratulations, baby daddy.”
My heart squeezes into a tiny dot before expanding to fill my entire chest cavity. “I love you,” I say thickly, pulling her toward me. “You can’t even imagine how much.”
And as she winds her slender arms around my neck, I kiss her, tasting the softness of her lips—and the love that she now gives back freely.
26
Sara
After my parents leave, Peter and I drive to my office, where I draw a vial of blood. A few minutes later, we have the official confirmation.
I’m five weeks pregnant.
I’m also ravenous, since I threw up the only food I’ve eaten today. “I don’t think I can wait until we get home,” I tell Peter, so he stops by a small pizzeria on the way.
I’ve never been to this place before, and I’m pleased to discover that though we’re the only customers right now, their pizza is the real deal, as good as anything I’ve had in fancier places. The only fly in the ointment is that the TV is on, showing the aftermath of the attack, and the owner—a plump, middle-aged man who speaks with a strong Italian accent—keeps talking to us about it as we eat by the counter.
“Such an awful, awful event,” he says gloomily, kneading a ball of dough in front of us. “What is the world coming to? First 9/11, then the Boston Marathon, now this. At least it’s the FBI they targeted this time, not innocent citizens, you know? Not that those agents are guilty, but you know what I mean. If you have some kind of beef with America, makes way more sense to target them or the CIA or something else having to do with the government.”