“You’re going to be a father,” Kathy whispered.
Jason nodded.
“Looks that way.”
Amber accepted Kathy’s trembling hand for a second, then gently pulled away and picked up her wine glass.
I watched her drink.
Not sip.
Drink.
Maybe I was old-fashioned. Maybe one glass meant nothing. Maybe I was looking for reasons not to trust her.
But the ultrasound looked oddly clean. Too perfect. The date in the corner did not line up with what Amber was saying. And when she shifted in her chair, there was something stiff about the way her dress moved.
I said nothing.
Kathy spent the next twenty minutes asking soft, hopeful questions.
Due date?
Doctor?
Names?
Would they want the old rocking chair from Jason’s nursery?
Amber answered everything with the breezy patience of a woman humoring someone beneath her.
“We’ll see.”
“Maybe.”
“That might not fit our style.”
Jason returned to his phone.
Kathy did not notice, or pretended not to.
I did.
By the time dessert came, Kathy’s soup had gone cold. She had eaten only a few spoonfuls. Her face was gray from pain, but she kept smiling because she did not want to ruin Mother’s Day.
Amber ordered crème brûlée.
Jason ordered chocolate lava cake.
Kathy and I declined.
“You don’t want dessert, Mom?” Jason asked without looking up.
“Oh no,” she said. “I’m full.”
She was not full.
She was exhausted.
Then she reached for her phone.
“Jason, honey, I found some pictures I thought you might like. Since there’s a baby coming.”
He glanced up for half a second.
“Pictures?”
“From when you were little.”
She turned the phone toward him. On the screen was Jason at four years old, grinning in our old backyard, holding the red fire truck I bought him after working two extra shifts.
“That was your favorite toy,” Kathy said. “You slept with it for a month.”
Jason smiled weakly, but his phone buzzed again.
“Mom, I’m in the middle of something.”
The smile left her face.
“Oh. Of course.”
She lowered the phone to her lap.
I looked at my son and saw two people at once.
The boy with the fire truck.
And the man who could not give his mother ten seconds.
Tyler brought the check in a black leather folder and placed it in the center of the table.
Amber reached for it first.
She opened it, scanned the total, and her mouth tightened.
“Tyler,” she said, lifting one manicured finger. “We need separate checks.”
“Of course,” he said. “How would you like that split?”
“One check for us,” she said, pointing between herself and Jason. “And one for them.”
Tyler hesitated.
“For their meals?”
“Yes.”
Amber gave a little laugh, like the whole thing was obvious.
“We’re not paying for her.”
The room around us seemed to lose sound.
Tyler’s face reddened.
Kathy stared at Amber as if she had been slapped, though no hand had touched her.
Jason sat beside his wife.
He heard it.
He understood it.
Then he nodded.
“That’s fine,” he said. “Separate checks.”