“It’s almost one-thirty. I’ll take care of it. But you really should be on a regular eating schedule. It’s bad for your pancreas.”

“Okay, Ma.”

Mom had the placating tone—the one she got when she was talking to bill collectors on the phone when they were demanding money she didn’t have.

Hopefully, Mormor still lets us move in when she finds out I’m pregnant. Mom’s struggling to go it alone.

Mormor led me into the house. She liked Americana decor, with furniture that looked old and distressed, lots of country landscapes and a dark red, navy and off-white color scheme. Her rugs were knotted, her drapes cotton and long. There was more wicker inside, but in the form of baskets, with plenty of houseplants tucked everywhere. We walked through the front room, which was the living room, with its big brick fireplace and overstuffed leather furniture. To the right of us were the stairs leading to the second story bedrooms, but it was the kitchen Mormor wanted, and it was the kitchen we went to, me a few steps behind her the whole way.

She motioned to a wooden stool at the island before washing her hands.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Or demanded, really. Because Mormor.

“I...uhh...wanna wait for Mom to come in, if that’s cool.”

“Why? Don’t you think you can trust me?”

On the one hand, sure, I could trust Mormor! On the other hand, she’d just grabbed a tomato, put it on a cutting board and cleaved it in half with a single resounding thud of the knife.

...because, again, Mormor.

“I know I can.” Mormor was gearing up to go at me again but, fortunately, Mom trudged inside with her zucchini crop, distracting her. The moment Mom left the zucchini on the counter, Mormor tutted and motioned at the sink with her machete.

“Rinse them. You know how I do things.”

“Ma, I’m—fine. Okay, look, we have to talk to you.”

“Are you not moving in after all? That’d be stupid, Astrid.” Mormor went back to her tomato, slicing it into big slabs and laying them out on a paper plate. A touch of salt, a drizzle of balsamic vinegar—she slid it my way, reaching for a loaf of crispy bread she probably made herself and slicing off a hunk. It, too, went onto the plate.

I stared at it. It ought to have been a real treat for me, because Mormor’s garden-fresh tomatoes were the best, except the idea of the squishy insides of the tomato with all those seeds made my stomach rebel.

I hunched over, squinting my eyes shut, willing the nausea to go away.

Stop trying to murder me, baby. That’s rude.

“...what’s wrong? Is she sick? If she’s sick—I’m sixty-five. You shouldn’t be exposing me to—”