A big potof chili bubbles on my stove, and I'm staring at it, mesmerized. The rapid-fire conversation in the next room reminds me that I invited my sisters over to share my pregnancy news. But I’m in here stalling.
Because I’m terrified.
They will have opinions. They will meddle. They will have more to say than my bosses at work, who didn’t seem overly concerned about me taking maternity leave in six months. When I promised I would be available to work from home as much as possible, the male partners gave me knowing glances and urged me not to make promises until I see what it’s like to be a parent. As though they know something I don’t. The female partners gave me different knowing glances, silently communicating that we women stick together and they’ll have my back. I don’t know which group intimidated me more.
I can already see my dreams of partnership fizzling while I’m on maternity leave, even if it’s not fair or legal. And it makes me want to succeed even more.
The chili has been bubbling for an hour, the ground steak, smoked paprika, and tomato flavors melding as the smell wafts into the air. I have no appetite, and morning sickness still strikes at all hours, so I munch on a saltine cracker and stir the pot.
One burner over, I have a smaller crock of vegetarian chili because Hazel doesn't eat meat, and I know she appreciates it when I remember. It’s not that my other sisters forget, per se, but we’ve had many instances of someone making a dinner reservation at a Cuban or Korean restaurant that’s heavy on meat without considering that Hazel won’t be able to eat half the menu.
Laughter in the next room gives me a little FOMO, wanting to be in on the fun, but I stay put, white-knuckling the ladle. I need one more moment of solitude. One last chance to hold on to my pregnancy secret before four sisterly opinions descend.
“Hey, is the wine in the fridge?” Hazel asks, popping her head through the doorway.
I nod and retrieve the corked bottle for her. “Take the whole thing. See if the others need a refill.”
“Where’s yours? I’ll refill it,” Hazel says, popping the cork from the bottle and pouring some Chardonnay into her own empty glass.
“Oh, I'm good.” I hold up my green bottle of sparkling water, which is nearly full.
She raises an eyebrow. “Really? You can get through a whole night with all of us gabbing in your house with just a Perrier?”
“Well, you see, I’m coping spectacularly by standing alone in the kitchen, but yes, I'm good.”
Hazel pushes her wild hair from her face, peering into the pots. “Is this one veg?”
“Yep.”
She leans toward it and beckons a waft of steam toward her nose. “Smells delish. Thank you for making a whole separate one for me.”
“Of course. You have to eat too.” Hazel checks the loaf of garlic bread, which is almost finished browning in the toaster oven. She gives the salad a cursory toss even though I already mixed the Caesar dressing into the lettuce a few minutes earlier.
“I honestly don't know how you do it,” she says, gesturing around my small kitchen, which is spotless except for what I’m cooking. I clean as I go, so I have less to do at the end, so it probably seems incongruous to someone who doesn’t cook. “You seem so calm even though we’re all in one room, dropping cheese on the floor and spilling wine on your couches.”
My eyes go wide at the idea of a mess, but then I rein in my panic. It’s something I’ve been practicing, even leaving crumbs on the counter instead of cleaning them right away so I’ll be more chill with the messy house accompanying a baby. But really, I’m only a tiny bit less chill, and I reach for a towel.
“I’m kidding. No one spilled. It was a joke.” Hazel doesn’t make jokes, so I pour some of my sparkling water on the towel and hand it to her wordlessly. “But one of these days you'll have to prep me on how to host a dinner party even though I barely know how to cook.”
“Cooking isn’t hard, especially for someone like you. You’re a scientist. You’ll get off on the chemistry of combining gluten with water and fats. I’m actually a little afraid because there’s probably a whole sourdough phase in your future.”
She takes one of my vegetarian cookbooks off a shelf and begins leafing through it. “I really never thought about it like that.”
“I’ll come by anytime you want, and we can cook together. Practice on me. Not the others.” I gesture to the next room.
“Yeah, they're not judgmental at all.” Sarcasm drips from her voice. “You good?” she asks.
“Yeah, all good. Nothing new.”
“Well, now I know you’re lying to me.”
“Why? How?”
“Because you answered too fast. Tell me. What’s up?” She's always been able to read me, so there’s no point in trying to hide it. Of all my sisters, she has the lowest tolerance for bullshit.
“Here, give me a hand with this, will you?” I point at a big serving bowl on my kitchen table, and Hazel brings it over. I hold up the pot of chili, and she scoops it into the bowl with a ladle. “If you bring that out to the table, I’ll grab the salad,” I say, popping the garlic bread out of the oven and sliding the pieces into a basket with the flat edge of a knife.
Hazel takes the chili, and I follow to drop off the salad bowl and bread. Then I circle back for the vegetarian pot, a fresh bottle of wine from the fridge, and little dishes of shredded cheese and onions for the chili. It takes me two trips, but I get everything on the table, and my sisters descend on the food like vultures. It's our usual way. Hannah hands bowls to everyone, and Dylan starts serving the salad onto plates.
