“And none of us are going through what you’re going through. Your mother was pregnant twenty years ago. Times have changed. We can empathize, but these are kids living your reality right now.” She tapped the table and stood up to go back to her overachiever dish-washing routine. A moment later, her back still to me, she said, “I would consider the program, Serendipity. It doesn’t sound like such a terrible idea to me.”

My reply was to grunt and eat another cookie.

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

“I still think it’s a great idea.”

Those words, said by my mother over dinner about the Saturday morning teen-mom thing, were Brutus-on-Julius-Caesar-level betrayal. I gawked at her over my meatballs, her knife twisting between my shoulder blades.

“Seriously? You want me to go to preggo patty-cake meetings?”

“Mormor makes a great point,” Mom said. “We had kids young, but it was different back then. Social media bullying, cell phones, networking—we didn’t have any of that to deal with. This program will know how to navigate that stuff. Plus, there will be counselors you can talk to about things you’re not comfortable talking to us about. Like gross biology stuff.”

“I have Devi to talk to when I’m freaking out,” I insisted.

“What does Devi know about delivering a baby?” Mormor asked. “Nothing. She hasn’t done it. These people will educate you on the important things.”

“Like the pooping on the delivery table thing,” Mom said.

“...excuse me?” I looked down at my meatballs with gravy. I looked back at my mother. “Say what now?”

“Later,” Mormor chided my mother.

“Later? Why later? Oh, God. What?” I looked between them. They were smiling at one another, like they were in on an I’ve-spewed-writhing-life-from-my-loins-and-you-haven’t-yet power kick.

“It’s not appropriate dinner conversation,” my mother warbled, her bottom lip quivering.

“Okay, but you don’t get to just drop that bomb—”

“Oh, it’s a bomb alright,” my mother murmured.

That was it. Both of them gave up on the pretense of not being wildly entertained by my poop trauma. Mom burst into laughter—big peals that bounced off the walls and ceiling to fill the room while my stoic, usually dour grandmother tittered into her napkin. Instead of making actual noise, she pretended to cough, but I knew what was up. I knew whose team she was on.

“It’s totally natural,” Mom managed. “Everyone does it. Almost. There’s a lot of pressure down there.”

Mormor pointed at my mother, nodded in agreement, but refused to look at me, too dignified to indulge such base humor.

Except she wasn’t at all. She was laughing so hard, her shoulders were shaking.

I’m onto you, old lady.

“No,” I said.

Mom quirked a blond brow. “No what?”

“NO, I REFUSE. I AM NOT POOPING ON THE DELIVERY TABLE.”