I wait for Jasmine to remind my mother we’re not together and I’m just the man who got her pregnant. But she stays quiet, and I don’t know what to do with the hope that creates.
“I’m old-fashioned and Catholic,” Mãe continues. “I believe a child should have parents under one roof. And I believe a woman shouldn’t live with a man who hasn’t committed to her spiritually and legally.” She glances at Jasmine. “Those were my rules for Meesha, and she respected them. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Mãe,” I warn.
“I’m not scolding.” She turns back to the stove. “You’re carrying my grandchild. I want to know she’ll be raised in a home, not shuttled between apartments.”
“We’re still figuring things out,” Jasmine replies.
“Of course,” Mãe adds, “Antonio has always been slow. You may need to be patient with him, but don’t waste too much of your time waiting on a ring from one man when there are plenty of other men.”
“Mãe.”
“Hush.
She changes the subject after that, asking Jasmine about her cravings, but the statement lingers. I finish chopping without looking up.
By the time the moqueca is simmering, they’ve covered pregnancy cravings, swollen ankles, and my father’s fainting spell in the delivery room. I’ve learned more about my own birth in twenty minutes than in thirty-two years.
I like watching them laugh together. I like the way Jasmine looks comfortable and cared for in my house. I like the way my mother treats her.
I like all of it.
By evening, my mother has filled the refrigerator with containers of food, each one labeled with reheating instructions. She hugs Jasmine for a long time before leaving.
“Take care of her,” she tells me at the door. “And eat the vegetables. All of them.”
“Yes, Mãe.”
“I’ll be expecting you two for Sunday dinner in two weeks.”
“I know.”
I walk her to her car and she kisses my cheek. I watch until her taillights disappear around the bend.
When I return inside, Jasmine is standing in the kitchen, holding one of the labeled containers. Frango grelhado, the handwriting says. Grilled chicken.
“Your mother is something else,” she says.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“I like her.” She sets the container down, but her hand remains on the lid. “She labeled everything. In Portuguese and English.”
“She’s thorough.”
“Your mom’s more prepared for this baby than I am.” Jasmine’s voice is quiet. “She showed me photos of the nursery at her house. Pink walls, a white crib, stuffed animals everywhere. She’s already bought clothes.”
She looks up at me, and there’s something sad in her expression.
“I haven’t bought anything, Antonio. Not a single thing. No clothes, no crib, no bottles. Nothing.” Her hand moves to her stomach, pressing flat against the curve. “I’ve been so focused on writing the book, I haven’t thought beyond doctor’s appointments and vitamins for this baby.”
I cross to her and pull her close, settling my hands on her hips. “You’ve had a lot going on. I haven’t bought anything either.”
She pulls back to look at me. “You found a week ago.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re in this together, remember?” I press a kiss to her cheek. “When we go back to Winter Bay, we’ll get everything she needs together. Clothes, furniture, whatever. You won’t have to do any of it alone.”
She turns her head to look at me. “You mean that?”
