Chapter 36

I blinked several times, hoping my eyes were deceiving me but no. She was still standing in the middle of my living room like she belonged here, wearing that familiar floral patterned blouse and grinning like this was a planned vacation.

“Mom,” I said, voice low but shaky, “what are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

She was already gliding around the living room, examining the little changes I’d made since the last time she visited, which was well over a year ago.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, waving a hand like her sudden appearance wasn’t jarring. “I had a few supplies I needed to pick up for the store, and instead of using the usual delivery channels, I thought, why not come myself? Besides, I’ve missed you.”

Her smile was warm. Familiar. Comforting.

And terrifying.

Because the only thing running through my mind was She’s going to find out.

My gaze dropped to my oversized, worn out T-shirt, the one I only wore on days I wanted to feel like a soft heap of sadness. Thankfully, it was baggy enough to mask the slight curve beginning to form beneath my belly button. Not yet noticeable to the untrained eye, but I had seen it.

Felt it.

Feared it.

If I’d been wearing one of my usual crop tops or even a fitted tank, she would’ve known immediately. I said a silent, frantic thank you to the universe and cleared my throat.

“Well… welcome,” I said with a forced laugh. “Let me help you with your bag.”

She gave me another side hug, then stepped aside as I wheeled her suitcase toward the guest room. She followed behind, already chatting about how the road trip was longer than she expected and how the city looked a little more chaotic than the last time she came.

I didn’t hear most of it.

My brain was too busy calculating how many layers I could wear for the next few days and wondering if it was possible to delay the inevitable by just… never sitting too close.

Once her bag was dropped, I picked up my abandoned cleaning rag and started wiping down the last bit of the kitchen counter.

“Don’t mind me,” she said, plopping down on the couch. “I’m just going to enjoy being in your space for a bit.”

I smiled as genuinely as I could and tried to act normal. “I’ll make us something to eat. Early lunch?”

“Perfect,” she said cheerfully, flipping through her phone.

I busied myself with the kitchen tasks; boiling pasta, dicing vegetables, stirring sauce and just being thankful that my hands had something to do.

She kept up the conversation from the living room, hopping from updates about my dad to stories about our extended relatives, to the woman who just opened a new bakery beside our family shop.

I answered when I could, laughed when I needed to, but inside, the panic grew louder.

She was sitting ten feet away from me. I was her only daughter. And I was pregnant.

And she didn’t know.

As I stirred the pot of pasta sauce, my mom wandered into the kitchen and began inspecting the spice rack. “You’ve gotten better at organizing,” she said with a proud nod. “Remember when your pantry looked like a war zone?”

I laughed, this time a little more naturally. “I’ve evolved.”

She grabbed an apron hanging on the wall and tied it around her waist. “Mind if I help?”

I handed her a chopping board and knife. “Be my guest.”

She started chopping onions with ease, the way she used to do when we cooked together back home. “So,” she said, “is there any guy you are seeing currently?”

The knife in my hand froze.

I took a slow breath and turned the heat down on the burner. “That’s… complicated.”

She gave me a look, the kind only a mother can give. “Complicated doesn’t always mean bad. Sometimes it just means real.”

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

She took the silence in stride and continued chopping. “You’ve always been the quiet type when something’s bothering you. Just like your father. That man would go mute for three days if he misplaced his toolbox.”

I let out a soft laugh and handed her a bowl for the onions. “Thanks for helping.”

“Of course.”

Lunch went smoothly. She loved the meal, complimented my seasoning, and even took a photo of her plate “for inspiration,” as she called it.

“This is delicious,” she said between bites. “You really outdid yourself.”

“Thanks.”

We talked about everything and nothing. About how the city was too noisy, about how the neighbor’s dog at home never stopped barking, about how my dad was thinking of repainting the store.

But I was aware of her watching me.

She knew.

Not the truth, not yet but she sensed the shift in my energy, the hesitation in my voice, the way I kept fidgeting with my napkin.

I cleaned up while she helped dry the plates, the rhythm between us so natural it almost made me forget how badly I was sweating beneath my clothes.

Just as I was about to retreat to my room to figure out how to survive the next few hours, I remembered my hair appointment.

“I almost forgot,” I said, grabbing my phone. “I have a hair appointment in an hour.”

“Oh!” Her eyes lit up. “Mind if I tag along? My roots are beginning to look like a science experiment. You know these city salons always have better treatments.”

I hesitated, but what reason could I possibly give to say no?

“Sure,” I said. “Come along.”

The salon was unusually quiet for a weekday afternoon, and I was thankful for that. The stylists recognized me and greeted me warmly, and soon both my mom and I were seated beside each other under large mirrors, our stylists working their magic.

She was in full “pamper mode,” making small talk with her stylist about hair products and local markets. I, on the other hand, was barely breathing.

I watched my reflection carefully. My hands sat stiffly in my lap. My eyes darted everywhere except her direction. And when I did glance her way, I noticed she was watching me.

Not saying anything.

Just watching.

She knew something was up. I could feel it in the way her eyes narrowed occasionally, like she was piecing together an invisible puzzle.

Halfway through her hair steaming session, she leaned toward me slightly. “Lila,” she said, her voice lowered, “are you okay?”

I blinked rapidly, caught off guard. “What?”

“You’ve barely said a word since we got here. And you keep fidgeting. Something’s not right.”

I tried to smile. “I’m just tired, Mom. It’s been a long week.”

She tilted her head. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” I said too quickly. “I’m fine.”

But my voice cracked slightly on the last word, and it was all it took.

I looked at her. She looked at me.

And then the tears came.

Fast. Hot. Humiliating.

“Oh God,” I whispered, turning away from the mirrors.

“Lila?” she reached for my hand.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out, wiping my eyes furiously. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”

She didn’t press.

She didn’t question.

She just held my hand through the foils and the steam and the awkward silence of the salon, and somehow, I knew she would wait until I was ready.

And when the appointment was done, we didn’t say much. We walked to the car. Quiet. Heavy.

When we got back to my apartment, she followed me in without a word. I placed her things on the couch and sat beside her. She sat with her body turned toward me, knees up, hands gently holding mine.

“Lila,” she said softly, “you can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

I took a deep breath.

And then another.

The words were stuck in my throat, but her presence, her calm, made it safe enough to finally say what I hadn’t been able to admit to anyone except myself.

I looked into her eyes.

And whispered…

“Mom, I’m pregnant.”