Diane’s POV
The drive ho from the park was quiet, filled with the comfortable silence that can only exist between people who don’t need to fill every mont with words. My mother humd softly to an old song playing on the radio, her fingers tapping gently against the steering wheel.
My son and daughter. The words still felt unreal, magical in a way I hadn’t expected.
As we pulled into Joan’s driveway, I noticed her car was gone. She’d ntioned having to be in court today, though she’d expected to be ho by early afternoon. My mother parked carefully, turning off the engine with a satisfied sigh.
"I’ll bring in the cooler and your things," she said, reaching to the back seat. "You shouldn’t be carrying anything heavy."
I smiled at her overprotectiveness but didn’t argue. "I’ll get the door, then."
As I stepped out of the car, fishing in my purse for Joan’s house keys, my phone began to ring. I glanced at the screen and felt a small flutter of surprise.
"It’s Andrew," I told my mother, who nodded as she gathered our things from the back seat.
I swiped to answer, moving toward the front door. "Andrew, hi."
"Diane!" His voice crackled through the speaker, distorted and breaking up. "I’ve been trying to reach you..."
"I’m sorry, you’re breaking up," I interrupted, straining to hear him. "The connection’s terrible."
"...important...need to discuss..." His words ca through in fragnts, lost in bursts of static.
I pressed the phone harder against my ear, as if that might sohow improve the connection. "Andrew? I can’t hear you. Can you call back in a few minutes?"
More static, then, "...will try...later...careful..." The call dropped abruptly.
I frowned at my phone, trying to make sense of the garbled ssage. What could be so urgent? I dialed his number, standing by the entrance of the house, but the call went straight to voicemail. I tried once more with the sa result before giving up with a sigh.
"Everything okay?" My mother asked, coming up behind with the cooler bag and my purse.
"I’m not sure," I admitted, unlocking the front door. "That was Andrew, but the connection was terrible. He said he needed to discuss sothing important, but then we got cut off."
My mother’s eyebrows drew together in concern. "I hope everything’s alright."
"I’m sure it’s fine," I said, trying to convince myself as much as her. "He’ll call back when he has better reception."
We stepped into the house, and I was surprised to find Joan sitting on the living room couch, her eyes fixed on the television where a news anchor was speaking soberly about market fluctuations.
"Joan!" I exclaid. "You’re ho early. How was court?"
She turned, a smile replacing her serious expression. "The opposing counsel requested a continuance, so the judge adjourned early. Perfect timing too—I was getting hungry." Her gaze shifted to the cooler bag in my mother’s hand. "Please tell there are leftovers from your picnic."
My mother laughed. "There might be a sandwich or two that survived."
"How was the appointnt?" Joan asked, muting the television and patting the couch beside her. "Everything good with the little ones?"
I couldn’t contain my smile as I settled next to her, my hand automatically finding my belly. "Everything’s perfect. Dr. Chen says they’re developing right on schedule."
Joan’s eyes widened, her excitent palpable. "And? Did you find out?"
"Find out what?" I teased, drawing out the mont.
"Diane!" She playfully swatted my arm. "Don’t torture . Boys or girls?"
"Both," I replied, unable to keep the news to myself any longer. "A boy and a girl."
Joan squealed, pulling into a gentle hug. "Oh my God! That’s perfect! One of each!" She released , her eyes shining. "Have you thought about nas yet? Color sches for the nursery? We need to start planning!"
"Slow down," I laughed, overwheld by her enthusiasm. "I just found out their sexes a few hours ago."
"Which ans we’re already behind schedule," Joan insisted. "We need to talk about a baby shower. I’m thinking maybe next month? Before you get too uncomfortable to enjoy it."
"A baby shower?" The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. With everything happening with Liam and the divorce, traditional celebrations seed like they belonged to a different lifeti. "I don’t know, Joan..."
"It doesn’t have to be anything big," she pressed. "Just a small gathering of your friends from work, so gifts for the babies. You deserve to celebrate this, Diane."
I glanced at my mother, who had disappeared into the kitchen and was unloading the cooler. She seed lost in thought, her movents chanical as she put away the remaining food.
She’d been quiet and distracted since our mont at the park, when she’d suddenly tensed up while looking at sothing—or soone—in the distance.
"Mom?" I called. "What do you think about a baby shower?"
She didn’t respond, continuing to move around the kitchen as if she hadn’t heard .
"Mom?" I tried again, louder this ti.
She startled slightly, turning toward with a distracted smile. "I’m sorry, what was that, dear?"
"Joan’s talking about throwing a baby shower. What do you think?
"Oh." She nodded slowly. "Yes, that would be lovely."
I frowned, studying her face. Sothing was off. "What are you thinking about? You seem a million miles away."
Her smile softened, becoming more genuine. "Just feeling a bit overwheld, I suppose. In the best possible way." She crossed the room to join us, perching on the armchair across from the couch. "Finding out I’m going to have both a grandson and a granddaughter on the sa day... it’s a lot to take in. I can’t wait to hold them in my arms."
I nodded, accepting her explanation even though it didn’t quite ring true. There was sothing more behind her distraction, sothing that had started at the park when she’d briefly frozen up. But I let it go, turning back to Joan.
"A small shower might be nice," I conceded. "Nothing extravagant, though."
Joan clapped her hands together. "Leave it to . I’ll handle everything." Her eyes glead with excitent. "Now, I’m thinking we should probably go with a gender-neutral the since you’re having both. Maybe sothing with stars and moons? Or woodland creatures?"
As Joan launched into an enthusiastic monologue about possible thes and decorations, I caught my mother’s gaze drifting toward the window, that sa distant look returning to her eyes. What wasn’t she telling ?
"Diane," my mother said suddenly, cutting through Joan’s chatter about diaper cakes and onesie bouquets. "I’ve been aning to ask you sothing."
I turned to her, curious about her abrupt change in deanor. "What is it?"
She folded her hands in her lap, a gesture she often made when choosing her words carefully. "This man, Andrew. The one who’s been helping you financially and with the situation with Liam..."
"Yes?" I prompted when she paused.
"I was wondering when you might invite him to dinner." Her eyes t mine, surprisingly intent. "I’d like to thank him properly for everything he’s done for you. It’s not every day soone shows such...selflessness. Especially toward soone they t under such unusual circumstances."
I blinked, taken aback by the request. The thought of inviting Andrew to dinner hadn’t occurred to . Our relationship, if you could call it that, existed primarily through text ssages and the occasional phone call. He’d visited in the hospital after the accident, of course, but those had been brief encounters heavy with the weight of circumstance.
"I...haven’t really thought about it," I admitted. "We don’t exactly have that kind of relationship."
"So, what kind of relationship do you have, exactly?" Joan asked, raising her eyebrow, her lawyer’s curiosity evident in her tone.
I shrugged, unsure how to define it myself. "He feels responsible for because of the accident. And he genuinely wants to help with the Liam situation."
"It seems like more than that," my mother observed quietly. "The amount of money he’s given you, the personal interest he’s taken in your welfare... That goes beyond re responsibility."
I shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny. "He’s just a good person."
"All the more reason to invite him to dinner," she insisted. "I’d like to et the man who’s had such an impact on your life. Who knows my daughter and grandchildren better than I do at this point."
There was sothing in her tone I couldn’t quite place—not jealousy, exactly, but a certain edge of...what? Suspicion? Concern? Whatever it was, it made uneasy.
"I’ll talk to him about it," I promised, hoping to end the conversation. "When he calls back, I’ll ntion dinner and see what he says."
My mother nodded, seemingly satisfied with my response. "Good. I make an excellent roast chicken. We can have him over next weekend, perhaps."
"Let’s not get ahead of ourselves," I cautioned. "I need to speak with him first."
She nodded again, but there was a determination in her eyes that told she’d already made up her mind about the dinner. My mother had always been like that—quietly but firmly setting plans in motion once she decided on a course of action.
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