“Try not to worry. I heard Aunt Lia say it’s not good for you or the baby.”

I smiled at Jeremiah’s earnest tone. “She said stress isn’t good for me or the baby?” Couldn’t get much more stressful than turning thirty-six and finding oneself pregnant and alone.

“Aunt Lia said you’re not alone.”

I squeezed his fingers for a moment, searching for the right words to say to my child. I wasn’t sure what those words were, though. “Oh, love, I’m not. I have you, and your aunt and Asher and your grandparents. As you said, we’ll be fine.”

Jeremiah turned toward me, his beautiful hazel eyes, Simon’s eyes, solemn. “I’ll make sure of it.”

This time I had to look away so my son wouldn’t see the tears I refused to shed. Simon had said just that to me when we found out I was pregnant with Jeremiah.

And even he changed his tune.

My parents met us just outside customs, much to my disgruntlement. I’d wanted time to use the loo and wash the fatigue and worry from my face. My mum clucked as she drew me in for a hug.

“There, now. Oh, poppet. We’re here for you, my darling.”

I squeezed my eyes together tight as I cuddled into my marshmallow-soft mum. “It’s worse than I thought.”

My mother extricated herself from my embrace and clasped my cheeks between her soft, plump hands.

“Don’t add to the worry. We’ll help you see this through,” she said, her voice turning brisk.

I hated to cry, preferring always to put forth a strong, capable front. I sucked in a deep breath, grateful for the moment to gather my jagged emotions.

“So, the good news is you had the test, and it came back negative. That’s worth celebrating.” My father’s jovial words struck me, each an emotional blow, but I put up a brave front.

“Right. Yes. Brilliant to know our gel won’t develop Huntington’s.”

While I was ecstatic to not have to worry about my new child in that regard, I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact I was about to become a divorcée.

“Simon’s seeing someone,” I blurted out. “She’s younger than me by a good five years.”

“He kissed her at that concert. In front of us,” Jeremiah said, shouldering his duffel bag, his freckled cheeks suffused in angry red color.

“Off to the car with you,” my father said, his eyes wide.

Yeah, this was going to be the merriest of Christmases. My mother grabbed another of our bags and wrapped her arm around my waist, cinching me tight to her side. “We’ve a lovely fresh blanket of snow. And it’s perfect hot cocoa weather.”

Jeremiah continued to scowl but at least he didn’t say anything further about his father.