The conversation continued for another few minutes after that—my mother asking about the nursery, about the crib I’d built, about whether I’d picked out names.
I answered each question with careful attention, watching my words the way I’d been trained to watch the horizon—methodically, with contingencies.
We didn’t talk about my father. Didn’t mention the thirty years of being told I was one thing when I was actually another. The call ended without resolution on the larger things—my father, the lie, the thirty years—but it ended without a door slamming either. My mother’s “I’ll call you next week” came with a promise she sounded like she intended to keep, and my “sounds good” landed exactly where I’d wanted it to.
I hung up and stood in the hallway for a moment, hand drifting to rest low against my stomach without me noticing I’d done it. The baby was quiet now—settled somewhere low and centralin.
Outside, the afternoon had fully arrived—light spilling across the valley in a long sweep, the mountains to the east visible as solid shapes against the pale sky. The brothers from town were back at work on the far end of the property, their voices carrying faint and indistinct across the yard.
I moved to the kitchen window and stood there with my hand on my stomach and my eyes on the valley, and tried to make sense of what was happening.
The call had cost more than I’d expected—had required a kind of vulnerability I wasn’t entirely comfortable with—but it had ended with my mother saying she wanted to be agrandmother, and that was worth more than whatever had come before it.
The baby moved again—a small, insistent pressure against my palm, a roll rather than a kick. I pressed back gently.
I stayed at the window for another minute, watching the light move across the valley, before I turned back to whatever came next.
* * * *
At nine that evening, I was in bed with the lamp on and a book open on my chest—a viticulture journal I’d been meaning to read for three months. The words had been swimming on the page for twenty minutes when my phone buzzed on the nightstand—in the spot where Cruz’s note had been that morning.
Cruz’s text read:“Landed. All good. Miss your coffee.”
I read it once, then read it again. The screen stayed lit for another thirty seconds after that, Cruz’s words exactly where I could see them, the “miss“ sitting between my shoulder blades like something with an edge.
I typed back:“It’s not that good.”I stared at the screen. Then I typed:“Baby was moving a lot today.”I sent it before I could decide it was too much.
The reply came in under two minutes—a rapid-fire string of questions: how long, which side, was it the heel thing again? Each one landing from a man who had decided, apparently without discussing it with anyone, that this was information he had the right to have.
I answered all of them, one after another—twenty minutes, left side, yes the heel thing—and the conversation ran longer than either of us probably planned.
Cruz asked about the greenhouse drainage, about whether Rawley’s team had rotated to check the perimeter, about whether I’d called Sterling to report the morning’s movement.
I answered each question with careful attention, watching my words the way I’d been trained to watch the horizon—methodically.
Then, from Cruz:“Can you feel it now?”
I set the phone down for a moment, one hand moving to rest low against my stomach without having decided to put it there. The baby had been quiet since that morning—settled somewhere low and central.
“Not right now,”I typed back.“Usually happens in the morning or after I eat. Doctor says that’s normal. Sugar makes them active.”
The reply came immediately:“Eat something.”
I made a sound that was almost a laugh—a noise that came from genuine amusement rather than politeness. Then I pushed back the covers and padded to the kitchen in my socks, phone in hand.
I stood at the counter with a half-eaten apple in one hand and my phone in the other, texting Cruz one-handed while I chewed. The house was quiet around me.
The baby moved fifteen minutes later—another roll, the heel-or-elbow tracking the same path across my ribs with what felt like deliberate attention.
I was back in bed by then, propped against the headboard with the lamp throwing warm light across the room, thumbs moving across the screen as I described it to Cruz.
“It’s happening again,”I typed.“Left side. Stronger than this morning. Feels like someone turning over in their sleep.”
The reply came back almost immediately:“Can you record it? The sound, I mean. Of you describing it. For when I get back.”
I read it twice, making sure I’d understood correctly. Then I set the phone down, reached for the voice recorder app I’d downloaded for vineyard notes, and pressed record.
“It’s happening again,” I said, my voice coming out more level than I’d expected. “Left side, just below my ribs. Feels like someone pushing from the inside out. The doctor says by next month, I’ll be able to see it—hands and feet moving under the skin, the whole thing visible from the outside.”
