Mr. Leon had apologized to me. For misplacing what had been basically a binder of pretend boyfriends.

...it hadn’t been my finest moment.

Bull elephant runs in the family.

“The boy has a name, Ma,” my mother said. “It’s Leaf.”

“Leaf. Yes. Now invite Leaf over for dinner,” Mormor said. “Unless you are hiding us away like some dirty secret. Is it because I’m a Republican?”

“What? No. It’s not—I don’t know if he likes Republicans, but he’s never said—I just hadn’t gotten there yet is all, Mormor. I’ll invite him when I talk to him later.”

“Good. You are a good girl. I’m simply interested in the boy who may end up being near my great-grandchild is all. Little Star can’t fend for herself yet.”

“Little Star” was the nickname Mormor had taken to using in lieu of my chosen name which, on one hand, was incredibly insulting because it disregarded my wishes about my kid’s name. On the other hand, it was possibly the cutest nickname ever so I was willing to let it slide.

“She really can’t.” Mom winked at me and slid the potatoes over so I could take my seconds. She was good about the changes going on in my body, realizing not only was I eating like a horse, but the night sweats had turned into day sweats, too, so she didn’t give me garbage about how I was dressed at the dinner table. She’d warned Mormor off giving me any trouble, too. We were careening toward a Massachusetts winter, complete with frost on the plants in the morning and puffs of clouds emanating from our mouths when we talked. But there I was, walking around in a tank top and shorts with my hair up because I felt like I was cooking from the inside. It didn’t do a lot to hide my big fat butt or my expanding midsection, but I didn’t care. I was comfortable.

Ish.

The kid was a presence, always.

I hadn’t really “popped” yet, but Dr. Cardiff said it was imminent when I asked. My stomach was no longer a simple swell but domed, and soon, it’d protrude, and maybe my bellybutton would do that weird innie-to-outie thing. My jeans were packed away for less-pregnant days, and even my leggings were straining under the growth. My skull leggings, for example? The stretch was so intense, my smiling sugar skulls had morphed into that creepy dude from The Scream.

Mom said we’d hit the maternity section soon, to look for stuff to get me through my last trimester. It wouldn’t be my most fashionable shopping adventure, but it’d be the most comfortable.

Or else.

“Saturday,” I said. “I’ll invite him over Saturday.”