“I do!” Mama yells. “Need to bring those hips home for a while.”

I hear the affection behind the chiding. And that she misses me. Hidden beneath all the chaos of my life and demanding schedule, I miss them, too.

“Well there’s always something popping off,” I say. “We’re gearing up for a few campaigns, but I’ll see if I can stay a while. I hired some new staff to help now that Lennix is gone.”

“Go, Lennix,” Kayla says, and I can almost see her beaming. “That’s my girl. You know we’re proud of you doing big things up in D.C. Electing presidents and such. You sure about turning down President Cade’s cabinet position?”

“Lennix asked me that just this morning. I’m sure.”

“I saw she’s pregnant. A baby in the White House. Ain’t that something?”

“It is,” I agree with a smile. “Okay. I’m gonna be late for my appointment if I don’t go.”

“See you next week.”

“K. Bye.” I disconnect and hurry through the office suite door and sign in. I flip through a magazine until they call my name and take me to my doctor’s office.

“Do I need to undress or anything?” I ask the nurse.

“No. Sorry if the message wasn’t clear. She just wants to discuss results.”

“I’m not dying, right?” I joke.

“I don’t know,” the nurse replies with a straight face and walks out.

“Okay. She could use some interpersonal training,” I mutter, settling into the seat across from the doctor’s desk.

Dr. Granden strides in moments later, her salt and pepper hair pulled into a bun pierced with a pencil. She always gives a very harried impression, almost absent-minded, until it’s time for her to actually talk to you about your health. Then you feel like she’s in absolute control and you have her full, expert attention.

“Kimba, hi.” She sits down and opens a file on her desk, a small frown bunching her brows when she looks up at me. She closes the file. “We got your bloodwork back.”

Please don’t let me be pregnant.

Please don’t let me be pregnant.

Please don’t let me be pregnant.

“I’m not pregnant, am I?” I ask, half-seriously, half-nervously. “Because I cannot afford that right now.”

An odd look crosses Dr. Granden’s face, almost like surprise. She adjusts her glasses and leans forward, elbows on the desk and steepled fingers at her lips.

“No, you’re not pregnant, Kimba. I believe you’re in perimenopause.”

It takes a moment for her words to sink through the layers of my expectations. Never in a million years did I think she would say that. A startled laugh slips out.

“No. What?” I tilt my head, a puzzled smile crooking my lips. “I thought you said menopause, but you couldn’t have—”

“Perimenopause.”

“I’m only thirty-seven.”