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Gabriel, Maddie, and I visited the Luxembourg Gardens the previous day. The little girl had a lot of questions to ask about the statues and the Luxembourg Palace as we strolled around the park. After the walk, we went to the Treize Bakery for snacks and drinks. We wanted to visit the Odeon too, but the threat of rainfall made us return home earlier than planned.
My eyes trail the living room adorned with decorations. The Christmas tree with garlands, wreaths, and gifts underneath it, which will be shared later, stands tall beside the fireplace. Dad and Jo are sitting beside it, engrossed in discussing the most recent Michel Houellebecq. Gabriel and Maddie are sitting beside each other in the middle of the large living room while my mom and I are reclining on the sofa.
“Santé,” my dad says, lifting his glass of champagne.
Smiling at Maddie, we lift our glasses of sparkling cider.
“Dad, why isn’t it snowing here?”
We all laugh at her question. I wonder why it took her so long to notice. Probably the lights and sounds of Paris took her breath away, so much so that she didn’t realize she hadn’t seen any snowflakes.
As Gabriel explains to her that it rarely snows in Paris, Jo steps out to answer a call.
“Ma chérie, could you please help me with the food?” my mom asks me and then frowns a little. “That’s if you’re not too tired.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m fine today, Mom. The evenings are also better for me.” Then I giggle. “I’m pregnant, not terminally ill.”
She smiles, in the calm way she usually does, and her green eyes sparkle. “I know,mon ange. You’re glowing.”
A thick blush covers my face. “Are you sure? I was certain I could pass for a scarecrow when I looked in the mirror a few minutes ago.”
She laughs, and my heart swells with joy. It’s been so long since we’ve been in the same room. Telling my parents that I was pregnant was the right thing to do. Although now, I’ll have to endure being babied like a little girl.
Rising, I walk with her to the kitchen.
“I don’t think Maddie will be able to wait up forPère Noël,” my mom says as she starts dishing out the foie gras while I cut the baguette to be served with sweet onion confit.
I laugh softly. “I don’t think she’s expecting to see Santa Claus here, Mom. No snowfall must surely make New York very different from Paris to her. Besides—” I get interrupted when my phone buzzes in the pocket of my jacket. I retrieve it and groan when I see it’s Pierre calling.
Smiling, my mom asks, “Is that Miles?”
“No. It's Pierre.” I place the phone back inside my pocket.
Her brows shoot up. “Oh? Is he still in the picture?”
“He wants to be.”
“And you agree?”
“Of course not. He’s very sorry for what he did, and he’s quite serious now. He wants us to get married.”
My mom pauses in her task to stare at me. Her glorious red hair is pulled back from her face in a loose ponytail. Her freckles, which I took from her, as well as her hair, eyes, and stature, are visible as she wriggles her nose with distaste.
“Do you believe him?”
I shrug. “He seems genuine.”
“Do you still love him?”
“No.”
“Do you trust him?”
“I don’t think so. No.”
“Have you told him about the baby?”
“No. It wouldn’t be fair to Miles to tell my ex-boyfriend about the baby while he doesn’t know anything about it yet.”
