That smile made the back of my neck tighten.
It was the smile she had worn in high school when she knew she’d gotten the dress she wanted and I hadn’t. The smile she wore at twenty-four when she flashed her ring and my mother cried like the world had been personally good to her. It was her spotlight smile, the one that said watch me.
“I have news,” she said.
My mother froze with both hands on the serving spoon. My father reached for the TV remote and muted the game. Even the kids seemed to feel the room pull toward her.
Colette pressed a hand to her flat stomach and waited exactly long enough for everyone to lean in.
“Baby number three.”
My mother gasped so hard I thought for one strange second she might choke. Then she laughed, cried, stood up, all of it at once. She rushed around the table and folded Colette into a hug so fierce her chair scraped the floor. My father grinned. Actually grinned. He slapped the table like somebody had just hit a home run.
“That’s my girl,” he said.
My girl.
I remember that clearly because I do not think he had ever said that to me.
The room went bright and loud around me. My mother was already talking nursery colors. My father was speculating whether it would be a boy or girl. Enzo started yelling, “Baby! Baby!” because children can smell excitement the way dogs smell rain. Colette tipped her chin down modestly, soaking it in. She was pretty in a soft, glossy way that translated well in photographs. She knew exactly how to receive admiration. Like inhaling.
I sat there with my fork in my hand and felt myself go very still.
Not sad. Not jealous. Just still.
Then my father turned to me, and his whole face changed. The smile flattened into something practical.
“Well,” he said, pointing at me with his fork, “you’ll be helping with the kids.”
At first I thought I had misheard him.
“I’m sorry?”
My mother didn’t miss a beat. “It makes the most sense, Martha. You work from home. Your schedule is flexible. Colette’s going to need support.”
Support.
That word in our family was always code for unpaid labor with a smile attached.
I opened my mouth, but Colette got there first. She leaned back in her chair, one hand still resting on her stomach like she was posing for a picture only she could see.
“It might actually be good for you,” she said lightly. “You’re not exactly busy building a family of your own.”
The room went quiet in a way that had weight. My mother looked down at her plate. My father took a drink of beer. Nobody corrected her. Nobody even pretended to.
