“Dana, it’s the middle of the night.”
“Exactly.”
She opened my car door and offered me her hand. I took it. My back cracked as I straightened up, and she winced right along with me.
“Come with me.”
“Sweetheart,” my MIL said quietly, “you should not be doing this. Not at eight months. Actually, not ever. Not for one single night.”
I looked down, ashamed.
***
We started up the three flights of stairs together. Dana went first, the package balanced across both arms as if it were a rifle in an old war movie. I followed, one hand on the railing and one hand under my belly.
Halfway up, I stopped.
“You should not be doing this.”
“Dana, wait. He’s going to be furious,” I whispered.
“Good.”
“He’ll blame me.”
My MIL turned onto the landing and looked me dead in the eye.
“Emma. Listen to me. You’ve done nothing wrong. Do you hear me? Nothing. You’re growing a whole human being in a body that hurts. In a car. In a parking lot. In this August heat.”
