Maribel clutched her mug of tea as if bracing herself for an earthquake. At one point, Julian walked toward the guest room, once his childhood room, to grab an old photo album he wanted to show me. When he turned the handle, he found the door locked.
He laughed. “Since when do we lock doors in this house?”
We both froze.
Her tone wasn’t playful. It was panicked. Julian raised his hands.
“Okay, okay. I was joking.”
Maribel forced a smile, but her eyes were nervous. “Just… don’t.
It’s a mess right now.”
We didn’t push it, but something about the way she hovered near the door afterward made my stomach twist. That was the moment when the uneasy feeling stopped being abstract. Something was definitely happening.
But we still had no clue what. Then came Thanksgiving. Julian and I had planned our own small celebration this year, our last Thanksgiving before parenthood.
I bought a tiny onesie that said “Grandma & Grandpa’s Little Turkey,” and we had envisioned unveiling it to his parents at dessert. We expected laughter, squeals, maybe tears. But one week before Thanksgiving, Maribel called.
Julian’s eyebrows shot up. “Why not?
Are you sick? Is everything okay?”
“I just… It’s complicated.”
“What does that mean, Mom?”Continue reading…
