I pulled away and nodded, walking my way back to Mom and the car, aware that he was watching every step I took.

“But you’re okay?” Mom asked for the fourteenth time since leaving Ianelli’s.

“I think so.”

“I want to support you,” she said.

“You can support me by getting me home so I can clean my room before Leaf comes over,” I replied.

Mom nodded. She accelerated five whole miles more per hour.

“I’m just worried he won’t call back. What if it’s a fake number?”

Mom was fretting.

“...we were at his dad’s garage. With the family name on it. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t do that, anyway, but if he would—he’s real dumb and I’m sorry to my kid for saddling her with his inferior gene pool.”

Mom cringed.

“Point! I’m nervous. Sorry.”

“So am I.”

After I’d given up on finding Jack, I’d abandoned the idea that my child would have a father. Truthfully, I’d been okay with that. It was what I knew. All the major milestones: Mom and Mormor. School plays, graduation from middle school, my spelling bee competitions—my mother and grandmother had been there. My father was a ghost in my life, a concept that people told me existed but I never actually saw. Sometimes, Mom got child support when my father worked somewhere that his wages could be garnished, but that was rare. Mom said he did odd job construction under the table, probably to avoid paying for me.

He never called or asked for pictures. There were no birthday or Christmas cards. He was nothing to me. I wasn’t even mad about it because how can you be mad at nothing?

The notion of dealing with things like support and custody and weekend visitation because a dad wanted to be around was foreign territory. And it was scary. What if Jack talked to his parents and they wanted to take my baby away from me half the time? They probably wouldn’t but...what if?

I’d said I was okay but it was a lie. Mom knew it, too, if her glances were any indication. We pulled into the driveway without another word. I shuffled into the house, feeling tired and achy and vaguely like I had to pee. Dr. Cardiff said that’d get worse throughout the third trimester as the kid’s weight pressed on the bladder. While I was still compact-ish, the pressure was mounting. I could only imagine what month nine was going to look like. I’d be spewing urine like a lawn sprinkler.

I mumbled a hello at my grandmother. The house smelled like food—she’d started cooking early in preparation for Leaf’s big entrance. Pots, pans and the slow cooker bubbled like witch cauldrons, their contents more sweet than savory and all delicious.