“Oh! She refuses! Yes, okay. Well, you refuse, Sara. That’ll do something, I’m sure,” Mom said, stuffing meatballs into her mouth and smiling. I could see them there, smeared on her teeth, all brown and gooey.

“I’ll talk to Dr. Cardiff at the next appointment,” I said. “And you look like you ate poop, just so you know. I hope you’re happy now.”

“Mmmm. Delicious. I think I’ll have more.”

She stuffed another meatball into her face.

Disgusted, I grabbed my plate and stood to leave the dinner table. Mom reached for my elbow and Mormor pointed at my chair.

“Sit, please. I’m sorry.” Mom dashed gravy off her bottom lip and got up to give me an awkward plate-between-us half hug. “We’re being awful. Please stay?”

“Okay fine, but I don’t want to hear the word poop from you again. Now or possibly ever.” I took my seat and dug into my meatballs. In the wake of our conversation, I should have been way more disgusted about the food’s sloppy brown appearance, but I was hungry, and Swedish meatballs are delicious, so down the hatch they went.

“When’s your next doctor’s visit?” Mormor asked, steering the conversation ship into safer waters.

Well, safer-ish waters. It got choppy fast.

“It’s coming up, I think?”

Mom nodded. “Friday. Hopefully sprout will cooperate and we can gender them.”

“Oh, good. I told my gardening club I think it’s a girl, so let’s see if I’m right.” Mormor looked too smug, and I had visions of those over-the-top gender-reveal parties with people shooting colorful exploding canisters. The idea of it bugged me, and I was afraid my grandmother, in her Larssen pride, would bake forty billion blue or pink cupcakes post sonogram to celebrate.

“We’re not going to make this a big deal, right?” I eyeballed them. “I’d prefer not to.”

“What do you mean by big deal?” Mormor gave me a not altogether friendly look.

“I wanna keep this chill. No parties, no colorful cakes, or pink or blue confetti.”

“Why?” she demanded.

I frowned. “Because I think it’s weird to celebrate genitalia.”

Mormor looked mutinous, which usually prefaced aerial shoes and squawking, so Mom sprung into action, her hand snapping out to grab Mormor’s bicep and holding tight. “Wait, Ma. Can you explain, Sara? I don’t think we’re catching your drift.”

I didn’t want to explain, particularly not with Mormor looking at me like she wanted to pummel me with the meatball dish, but I did because I’d opened up that can of worms. Might as well own all of its wormy goodness.