32
ALASKA
It’s been two weeks since the test. Positive.
Vega didn’t cry—no pout, no flicker. I was braced for screaming, drama, my hand over her mouth so nobody woke up, and…
nothing. She spent seven days ducking in and out of her own head—she’d surface for a bit, breathe, disappear again—and I sat next to her looking like a random extra crashing a gala without a press pass.
If someone told me I was knocked up, I’d have such a meltdown they’d have to sedate me with a mariachi band and a calamari sandwich and then call in reinforcements.
"So, positive?" I whispered that first day, just in case the universe changed its mind.
"Yeah," she said, steady.
"Do you want a hug, or should I toss a blanket over you and leave?" I took a shot.
"Blanket." And silence again.
The older ones staged an Obstetric War Council in the dining room. Irina walked in first, with that impossible-boss face, and dropped: "Meeting. Now."
Julia followed with a tablet so organized it was terrifying. "I made bullet points and reminders," she said, utterly calm.
Amaia set out water and gluten-free cookies.
Sabina showed up with a bag that looked like an entire pharmacy and that professional face that doesn’t judge you but reads your whole life.
Me, on a chair, butt clenched. At the group home we grew up in, if someone got pregnant, they’d form a scolding committee, slap up a sign, deliver a moral lecture, and hand down a punishment.
Here, nobody raised their voice. Here, they argued among themselves, plotting the future, like it was some corporate decision.
Julia opened her tablet and fired a laser beam of efficiency straight at my forehead.
"Being a young mom includes waking up every three hours, breastfeeding or formula, diapers, broken sleep, canceled plans, checkups, vaccines, logistics, a support network, daycare or no daycare, training, school. I made a roadmap and a timeline."
"You’re asking for a test I’m guaranteed to fail," I muttered.
"No one needs to fail anything," Vega cut in, decisive.
Irina, who always gives off villain-who’s-memorized-the-script vibes, leaned on the table without a hair out of place. "Whatever she has, we have," she said, no hesitation. "Between Sabina, Amaia, and us, there’s enough money to support five generations with a cushion, education, and security."
I thought: aha, you’re giving yourself away.
She’s thrilled. In my head I was already seeing a neon sign on the bedroom door: Future Heir.
Also a private island with waterslides and paperwork signed so no paparazzi can get within three hundred feet.
Irina wants a big family, endless gatherings, and a dining room that spills onto another floor.
Sabina tucked her hair behind her ear and switched to clinical mode, trying to persuade Vega gently. "There are options. Elective termination within the legal window, low risk, safe protocol, full support. I’ll explain everything and you decide, no pressure."
Amaia nodded and held Vega’s hand, going full human weighted blanket. She didn’t say much, but every silence of hers was worth a peace summit.
"I want to keep it," Vega said, and that ended the philosophical debate.
Sabina didn’t take three seconds to swivel her phone screen—her face was something, by the way.
But she didn’t argue. "Scheduling starts now. Labs, folic acid starting today, ultrasound in two weeks, vaccine list, nausea tracking by time blocks, rest, hydration, risk avoidance. I made a shared note. Look, I put syringe and heart emojis so you don’t get bored. "
"Are you going to jab me if I play dumb?" I asked, trying to contribute humor.
"I’m keeping an eye on you too," she said, serious and maternal at once. "The safety net is for all of us."
Within a minute we had alarms, contacts for nurse-midwives, links to articles, and a photo of a weekly meal plan that made you jealous.
I could already see the next day: Sabina in the hallway with a blood pressure cuff, Vega hiding behind the couch, me with an open bag of chips, and Amaia saying, "Breathe, don’t run, it’s a second. "
Then came the star debate: where "the kids" were going to live—and I’m being ironic, because they keep calling "kids" people who are twenty-one, pay their own phone bill, and know how to open a bank account.
"Option one," Sabina announced. "With us in the building in Chueca. Rooftop garden, yoga, light dinners, a quiet vibe, a pharmacy nearby, the star doctor upstairs—key."
"Option two," Julia said, PowerPoint voice on. "With us at the mansion. Plenty of rooms, a driver, security, staff who get things done, the star doctor making house calls when needed—and when not, she’s probably here anyway—quiet at night, everything over the top."
"Third way." I raised my hand. "An apartment for them. Big TV, a washer that doesn’t talk back, a local supermarket, a crappy loud neighbor, real life."
"No," they all answered at the same time.
"Crystal clear," I surrendered. "I’ll shut up."
Irina pulled up a floor plan of the house on a secondary tablet. She already had rooms marked, a crib, a spot for the changing table, routes so you don’t trip—I’m exaggerating, but you get me.
"Here they’d be close, organized, looked after," she said, not taking a breath between words.
Sabina was nodding, but her eye twitched a little.
"In Chueca too," she added. "And there’s something key: guided independence. They can learn without being alone."
"They’re not going to be alone, period," Julia wrapped it up, with a season-finale voice. "We decide based on logistics, not ideology."
Mikel, who until then had been quiet, squeezing Vega’s knee under the table, said very slowly:
"Whatever you say. We want stability. I work, I’m in school, I’ll cook if I have to. I’ll make it work."
They had that look of people grateful someone else is putting the puzzle together for them.
Me, inside—resident nag—I wanted to stand up and launch into a speech.
I didn’t. I saved it and made a note to myself not to give in to the temptation to assemble a crib with my own hands, because I’d definitely leave it wobbly.
Irina won, of course—the supreme boss of the mansion and of soft hearts.
And it’s not that she won by sheer swagger—well, that too—but because she had heavy-duty arguments: safety; doctors ten minutes away by helicopter, in case Vega gets a craving for caviar at three in the morning; Nat’s mom’s cooking, which is like having Gordon Ramsay at home; and a room they’re already painting a neutral, elegant color that won’t scare the baby.
For dessert, Sabina on duty twenty-four/seven, and I don’t mean she drops by—no, she’s installed, with her base of operations on the kitchen counter, the blood-pressure cuff next to the coffee spoons, latex gloves in the fruit bowl.
And me, behind her, watching the show, because this woman rejects the title of Grandma with a faith the church wishes it had in its pews.
In my head she appears in a sexy white coat, stiletto heels, a tight glove, and a tiny submachine gun hidden in her purse, ready to defend the baby from any germ, any side-eye, and any sister-in-law who offers an opinion without being called on.
"Nobody gets to call me Grandma," Sabina says the second she walks into the living room, hands on hips, ponytail gleaming. "Nobody. If you must, Sabi. If you must, the Blonde. If you’re feeling theatrical, Her Highness, Baroness of Abs, Queen of the Epidural, Pilates Royalty. Grandma, no. That name’s not mine. I do not have that look."
She doesn’t pause to breathe. Vega arches an eyebrow, I hit record on my phone—file: "Sabina Not-a-Grandma, episode one thousand." End of the harangue and she flips to clinical mode: she takes Vega’s blood pressure, twice, just in case; then a little finger prick for blood sugar, again just in case; presses a piece of toast into her hand with a plate of cut fruit, and announces in an anchor voice that the baby is in charge. She says it and doesn’t flinch.
I turn away, stick my head in the cabinet, because I’m about to crack up.
This woman is ridiculous, yes, but useful—and I love useful. I won’t pretend otherwise.
Mikel, in that first storm, spoke once and that was it. I remember it: silence, everyone looking at Vega, me about to blurt something outrageous to cut the tension, and he goes and drops, in a gentle voice—the kind you can’t tell if he sings Christmas carols in a choir or teaches Sunday school:
"It’s Vega’s body. She decides. I support whatever she decides."
That was it. No thesis, no slideshow, no reading list. He dropped it and let it float.
I put a check mark in my imaginary notebook: well said.
Bonus points for saying she decides, which isn’t something you hear much in this house.
You can tell he was raised by two mothers.
His fundamentals are drilled in from practice.
Empathy comes easy, and he’s got the good-boyfriend protocol down without a manual.
Since then he’s been in full library-dad mode.
Stacks of books everywhere: parenting, sleep, diapers, attachment, labor, breastfeeding, weaning, allergies—everything highlighted with cute colored highlighters that look adorable in his clear case.
On his phone he’s got an app that every morning tells us the baby’s size in produce.
Yesterday, blueberry. Today, cherry. Tomorrow, a tiny peach.
I swear, I wake up and the first thing I hear is his briefing voice:
"Team, daily update: firm cherry. Let’s avoid sudden movements. Hydrate like crazy."
I love him and he drives me nuts at the same time, because he’s so sweet it makes me want to kiss him on the mouth, and then I remember he’s with my sister and the feeling passes.