Chapter Twenty Five
Paige
I can’t make my feet be still.
I keep telling myself to sit, to breathe, to stop wearing a path between the sink and the back door, but my body doesn’t listen to what my brain wants.
I pace the length of the kitchen, the soles of my sneakers whispering against the old wood, then turn and cross it again, palms skimming the cool edge of the butcher-block, pausing at the window to stare out at the river.
It’s doing what it always does this time of afternoon—sliding blue and silver past our yard, sunlight forking through the maples to stitch little diamonds across the surface. It looks calm.
I am not calm.
My stomach rolls, again, the same low, sloshy nausea that’s been here since I woke up this morning.
I press the back of my wrist to my mouth and breathe through my nose until it eases.
The ginger chews Mom keeps in the ceramic jar by the coffee maker help, a little.
I pinch the lid open, fish one out, and bite down.
It’s spicy-sweet, a burn that’s comforting.
My phone face down on the counter sits there silently, but every few seconds, my eyes jump to it like I can will the time faster.
Ben: On my way. Ten, fifteen minutes.
That was eight minutes ago. Or eighty. Time has seemed ‘off’ all day, stretched and thin like taffy.
I walk to the doorway and peer down the hall toward the front of the house. “Mom?” I call, and my voice comes out too bright.
“In here,” Mom answers from the front room.
I picture her in the wingback by the window that faces the road, needle moving in neat little bites through whatever quilt she’s finishing now, a glass of water on the side table, the coaster under it a thing she crocheted in the exact pattern of a snowflake.
I go back to looking out at the river.
I needed to be sure before I asked him to come.
I’d been sure anyway, but I still stood at the window and watched the driveway for a long time after I texted him, counting the cars that eased past our turnoff, telling myself that if Dad or Jason swung into the gravel unexpectedly I’d send Ben a frantic ‘Never mind, abort, go home.’
They didn’t. Mom’s car and mine are the only ones here. Dad took the truck out to help a neighbor haul brush; Jason isn’t expected at dinner tonight, but I checked to make sure he’ll be at work regardless.
I swallow hard, reach for my bag, and slide the folder from the clinic out just enough to see the fat little letters stamped on the corner.
Paige Richards. The paper is already soft at the edges because I keep taking the strip of grainy pictures out, looking, putting it back.
I press the folder flat on the counter, then tuck it back into the bag like a secret.
My phone buzzes, making me jump.
Ben: Here.
I glance toward the hall one more time. “Mom?” I call again, trying to summon casual and hoping it doesn’t come out strangled. “Can you come out to the patio?”
There’s a pause. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I say too quickly and then, more honestly, “I just need to talk to you for a second.”
She appears in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on the legs of her jeans like she always does when she’s been working with fabric. Her hair is twisted up with a pencil, and she’s wearing one of Dad’s old button-downs over a T-shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
There’s a crease between her brows I know by heart. “You’re pale,” she says mildly, but her eyes are already sweeping me, inventorying. “Have you eaten?”
“I’m fine. Not hungry right now.”
“Of course.” Her gaze flicks past me to the back door, through the glass to the river. Then back again to my face.
She tilts her head, the crease in her forehead deepening by a millimeter. “Outside?”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Please.”
She studies me for half a beat more, then nods once. “Okay. Let’s go.”
I should tell her now—just blurt it out over the sink.
Instead, I trail her down the hall, watch her reach for the cardigan hanging on the peg by the mudroom door, pulling it on and buttoning just one button at the top.
She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear and turns to me with an expression I can’t read at all.
We step out through the mudroom to the back porch that faces the river—my favorite place on earth. The chairs out here are old and wide and creaky, the kind of porch furniture that suits casual conversation at the end of a long day.
There’s a quilt draped over the back of one chair. It’s blue and white and looks like the sky and river meeting.
Ben is there, standing by the railing with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, staring at the water like he’s debating whether to walk straight into it. He turns at the sound of the door. His expression when he sees Mom is a whole page of things at once—respect, apology, bracing.
Mom stops short. Surprise flickers across her face—brows up, eyes narrowing, a quick glance at me that scrolls through a whole list of questions.
“Ben,” she says. “Hello.”
“Hi, Gwen.” His voice is steady. It makes the tension in my chest loosen a bit. “Thanks for letting me… for talking with us.”
Mom looks at me, then back at him. “All right,” she says, adjusting the collar of her cardigan. “What’s going on?”
I feel like I’ve swallowed a fist. The ginger in my mouth tastes suddenly syrupy and wrong. I go to the chair with the quilt and grip the top of it like I need help staying upright. The river rushes behind me.
I look at Ben. He looks back and gives me a small nod.
I hear myself say, “I’m pregnant,” and the word hangs there, an invisible rope stretched between the three of us.
Mom doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. She goes so still that for a second, I wonder if I imagined saying it.
Then her mouth softens. The crease between her brows eases. Her hand lifts like it’s going to cover her heart and then changes course, reaching for me instead.
“Oh, honey,” she says, and it’s not pity—it’s warmth, it’s wonder—it’s the exact reaction I didn’t know I needed. “Congratulations.”
I nod, unable to speak, and then I’m in her arms.
She hugs me the way she always has—nothing has changed there. There’s a tiny tremor in her exhale against my hair that sounds a lot like quiet excitement, like she’s trying not to startle a skittish bird.
She leans back to see my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks. “Are you all right? Happy? Scared?”
“All of the above,” I say, and my laugh wobbles. “Mostly nauseated, if we’re ranking.”
Her eyes go bright, a quick, contained spark. “All a part of the experience.” She angles her head toward Ben without letting go of my face. “And you?”
Ben straightens like he’s been addressed by a principal. “Pretty much the same,” he says, voice steady. “Even nauseated sometimes too.” The last word is almost a vow.
Mom laughs again.
Then she squeezes my hands and steps to the chair beside mine and lowers herself. “Okay,” she says gently. “Tell me everything.”
I swallow and reach into my bag for the folder. The glossy strip of black-and-white slides into my palm. I hold it out.
Her breath catches, and she takes the photos like they’re made of spun silk and studies them, mouth curving. “Look at you,” she murmurs to the little crescent. “You tiny show-off.”
I press my lips together so I don’t cry. “They measured six weeks, two days. There was a heartbeat.” My voice goes breathy on the word, like I’m afraid I’ll scare it away by saying it too loud.
Mom’s eyes flick to mine, shining. “Oh, my baby,” she says, and her is wobbly. “Are you on a prenatal? And did they give you anything for the nausea?”
“I bought a prenatal today,” I say. “And some ginger chews. The doctor mentioned B6 and doxylamine if I need it.”
“Good.” She tips her head the way she does when she’s ticking off a checklist in her head. “You’ll let me pick up crackers for your nightstand? Lemon ices? I can make those little honey-ginger cubes you liked whenever you were sick growing up.”
My throat goes thick. “I have crackers already, but the rest… yes, please.”
She turns her attention to Ben, not unkind, just direct. “Where do you stand, Ben? Not big-picture—right now. What do you need to be the person my girl can lean on?”
I feel him draw a careful breath. “I’ll be where she asks me to be,” he says. “At appointments, with boxes, fixing things. Lifting things.” His mouth tugs, self-mocking. “I don’t really know, to be honest.”
Mom holds his gaze for a long beat. Whatever she’s looking for, she finds enough of it to nod. “Okay.”
The quiet space fills with sounds of the river and birds and the distant roar of someone’s mower. Mom smooths a corner of the quilt, then looks at me again, excitement slipping through her composure in a brief, delighted smile.
“Your dad is going to be… well. You know your father.” Her eyes crinkle. “He’ll immediately start Googling ‘college funds.’”
A startled laugh escapes me. “That sounds right.”
Her expression sobers, the kindness never leaving. “Do you want me there when you tell him? Or do you want to tell him alone? I can run interference. Translate Don-ese.”
“I want you there,” I say, relief prickling behind my eyes. “All three of us will be.”
“Done.” She reaches over and squeezes my knee. “And Jason?”
Ben shifts almost imperceptibly.
“We know we can’t wait forever,” I say. “It’s just—early. And he…” I swallow. “He’ll need time.”
Mom purses her lips, no doubt thinking of her lifetime of experience with Jason. “He’s your brother. He’ll react like a brother before he reacts like anything else.”
She glances at Ben. “And he’s Ben’s brother, which is a different kind of complicated.” Then she sobers. “We’ll have to be careful, but if we do it right, all should be fine.”
She turns her attention back to me, and the excitement shows again, quick and contained. “I have to make a quilt,” she says suddenly.
“A quilt?” Ben asks, like he’s trying out a word in a foreign language.