Chapter 8: Ten Weeks

For a moment, the only sound in the dining room was the clock on the mantel.

Then fourteen people turned to look at me at once.

An aunt said, "Oh, Bernice."

Quinn put a hand low on her belly and lowered her eyes.

It was a very good performance, and she had clearly practiced it.

"Nine weeks," she said softly. "We only found out on Thursday."

Thursday.

The day Ethan texted me that the conference was brutal.

I looked at Ethan.

He was staring at the tablecloth, and the tips of his ears had gone red.

He didn't say it wasn't true.

Samson's chair scraped.

I put a hand on his sleeve under the table, and he sat back down.

"Congratulations," I said.

I heard how steady it came out.

"I beg your pardon?" said Bernice.

"To the baby. I hope it's healthy."

My own hand wanted to go to my stomach, and I kept it flat on my napkin.

I thought of the envelope in my bag, with three black and white pictures in it.

I thought of a woman in a pearl necklace, smiling at the head of the table.

Not yet.

Whatever Bernice was building, I wanted to see the whole thing before I put my baby anywhere near it.

"Ethan," I said. "I'm filing tomorrow. My lawyer will send papers to your office."

"Han, wait."

"Nobody will take the condo, and nobody will take what's mine."

I stood up.

"Thank you for dinner, Bernice. The lamb was dry."

Somebody laughed, and it was cut off at once.