For as long as I can remember, my mom was always a pretty mom. She had a great figure, she ate what she liked, she had a piña colada every Friday and dessert was something we enjoyed as a family. These days, she’s a different kind of pretty.

Once my dad died, she became fixated on fitness. She walks over five miles a day, is on a first-name basis with every employee at her local gym and our family desserts are a distant memory. I can’t even utter ice cream without having anxiety that I’d set off some kind of Goonies-esque booby trap. Not that working out and eating only healthy food is a bad way of life—obviously it’s not—but I’m more of a fan of everything in moderation.

Stepping deeper into the kitchen, I pass her weekly weight and BMI chart that’s pinned to the fridge with a popsicle stick magnet I made in kindergarten. Her stats are impressive and she meets her every fitness goal with gusto.

“Hello, family,” I say, giving Mom a kiss on the cheek. She stands up and gives me a hug that makes me gasp. She’s clearly taken her free-weights routine up a notch.

“Hey, honey. You’re right on time.” I glance at the clock above the stove, relieved to find that it’s 5:30 p.m. on the dot. Mom gets prickly if she has to eat past 6:00 p.m. I look to the counter next and find the meal that she prepares every Sunday. Baked salmon, mashed cauliflower, and salad made from the organic greens and tomatoes she now grows in the backyard.

“What, no cheese fries?” I joke. She rolls her eyes and I hold up the mail. “I picked these up on my way in. There’s a couple in there for Dad.”

“Oh.” She takes the letters and her smile fades for the briefest of seconds before she plasters it back on. “Okay, thank you. I’ll just sort through these later.” She puts the mail into a drawer and closes it. Jen and I pretend not to notice when her hand stays on the handle for longer than necessary.

I then turn to kiss my pale and pregnant older sister. If someone didn’t know that Jen was having a baby, they would never notice her tiny bump. I choose not to think about the nagging fact that my expecting sister and I could share the same jeans.

“Where’s Denny?” I ask her. Denny is Jen’s husband of four years.

“He couldn’t get out of work. He’ll make it next time.”

Denny runs the radiology department at Long Island Jewish Medical Center. Even though he has nothing to do with obstetrics, it still means delivery room VIP treatment for Jen when the baby comes. Would you like a hot-stone massage after your next contraction? Yes, please!

“How are you feeling?” I ask.