“Well,” she said, looking at me and not the babies. “Here we are.”
My mother-in-law walked in.
“Show me,” I said. “Whatever you told him.”
She laid out photographs on my blanket, one by one.
The first were of the newborns, pictures Andrew must’ve sent.
She held one up beside her phone. “Look at that nose. Do you see it?”
“Show me,”
“See what?”
“Daniel’s nose, Daniel’s chin.” She smiled triumphantly. “You’ve obviously been having an affair with him.”
Daniel. Our friend of 12 years.
Daniel, who had cried at our wedding.
“See what?”
“They’re three hours old,” my mother said, and her voice could’ve frozen soup. “They look like potatoes.”
My mother-in-law ignored her.
She pulled out one more photograph.
“They’re three hours old,”
It was cropped tight: Daniel and me, our heads close, his arm around my shoulders, my face tipped up and laughing.