Lucas and Valerie offer to help me. I’ve never cooked with children before, but Claire helps orchestrate everyone’s tasks. Once we’re done, we set up the table and sit down to eat. The pasta is a success. Valerie’s face is red from the marinara sauce. Claire takes her to wash her face while Lucas and I pick up the table.

“You need to spend more time with children, Hannibal,” she says, grabbing the pot I just finished washing and drying it.

“Wait until Adam grows up and I’ll know what to do.”

“Who is Adam?” She frowns.

“My nephew.”

She tilts her head to the side, pressing her lips together. “You have a nephew?”

“And a niece,” I confirm. “Her name is Leah.”

“Oh wow, Lola is having twins?”

I shake my head slightly “No. She’s expecting baby number three.”

Claire gasps. “Get out of town, how?”

“You’re still against marriages and having children?” I ask, because she said that to me once, and I’m not sure if she’s interested in this conversation or just humoring me.

“No. I’m single because I just haven’t found anyone. And kids, well, they need time. I might have a couple on my own if the relationship thing never works out. But I’m glad that Lola has children. I just can’t believe she’s about to have the third one. It feels as if the wedding was just a week ago. How?”

“Well, I know I joked about it, but … Lola was pregnant when she got married. She hid it pretty well.”

Claire smiles. “The dress was loose, and she never drank, now that I think about it.”

I nod. “So, Adam was born in September. Then, Leah arrived almost ten months after Adam.”

“And they’re already expecting the third one?” Claire asks, surprised.

“Kevin got a vasectomy, but she’s pregnant, again.” I shrug.

“So that’s what they meant by ‘everything that’s been happening to Lola.’”

I nod. “Probably, there were several complications during the second pregnancy. Leah was a sick baby.”

“So that’s why she apologized for not reaching out to me?”

And I have to ask, “Where did you see them?”

“I’m asking questions.”

“Answer mine first.”

“Downstairs,” she responds. “Lola caught me as I hauled my luggage toward the elevator. I thought she lived here.”

One of the million questions I had has been answered. No wonder my mother thought I was an asshole. I didn’t go to pick up my girlfriend or even give her a tour of the house.

“Mom brings me food every other day.”

“Aww, she still feeds you.”

“I cook my own food.” I point at the kitchen where I cooked the spaghetti she called ‘scrumptious.’

“What happens to what she drops off?”

“I donate it to the shelter.”

“What else am I missing?” she questions me. “Lola and her thank-yous that never made it?”