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Mom purses her lips at me. “That’s what it takes to needle you into action?”
“My youth is slipping away. It’s just not fair,” I bellow and shake a fist at the ceiling.
She pats my hand in a placating manner. “Quit the theatrics, kiddo. There’s still plenty of time to give your darling mother the grandchildren she’s desperate for.”
I recoil from the suggestion. “That’s not my department. Joy and Cole already have one fresh out of the oven. I bet another will be baking shortly.”
My sister shares a look with her fiancé. After a silent exchange, Joy plasters a wide grin on her face. “This conversation isn’t about my ability to reproduce.”
“Well, it should be. You make adorable babies.” I gesture at Belle, innocently babbling in her swing.
“We do,” she agrees and peeks down at her daughter.
Cole loops an arm around Joy to join in the admiration of their offspring. “Yeah, we did really good. She’s perfect.”
On cue, little Belle toots loud enough to amuse her captivated audience. We coo and sigh as a unified group. Mom dabs at her misty eyes, as if a baby fart is the most precious sound.
“Such a blessing,” she gushes.
“See? Problem solved.” Even if I have to choke on bile at the thought of my friend impregnating my little sister. Again.
My mother turns the full intensity of her stare onto me. “You’re not interested in experiencing such a miracle?”
“What do you mean? I’m sitting right here, smelling the stink bombs like everyone else.”
“Can’t you take this seriously for once?” Her statement is eerily similar to Grace’s accusation from last week. The reminder threatens to unravel my overall indifference to this topic.
“How about we change the subject? Dirty diapers don’t pair well with dessert.” I motion to my untouched pie.
“Or just circle back to Grace. We got sidetracked, which is super easy to do with this cupcake nearby.” My sister blubbers over Belle, immediately distracting us again.
“This could go on all night,” I mutter.
Mom wrenches herself free from the baby trance with a shocking demonstration of willpower. “Who’s Grace?”
“Garrett‘s girlfriend,” Joy reiterates.
I grunt at the purposeful misconception. “She’s just a friend.”
“Who you’ve been texting nonstop.”
A sudden urge to check my phone for new messages has me shifting on the chair. “I’m trying to find her a decent guy to date.”
“Have you looked in the mirror?”
“You’re the one who told me she’s off-limits,” I remind.
“Only if you’re sticking to the hump and dump habits.”
Our mother groans and rubs her temples. “Please stop. This is too reminiscent of your teenage bickering. It’s giving me horrible flashbacks.”
“Sorry.” We recite the simple apology in tandem just like our younger years.
“Accepted,” she chirps. “Which one of you is going to tell me about Grace?”
“She’s the nanny we hired for Belle.”
“You hired a nanny?” Mom’s sharp tone bleeds with offense.
