“And where is Nate?”
“At the gym.”
I stayed standing in my coat. Brianna rubbed one hand over her stomach.
“We didn’t think you’d mind once you saw it.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“The baby needs somewhere quiet.”
“The baby’s parents need to provide that.”
Her expression changed instantly. “This is your grandchild.”
“I know.” And I did know. I had already bought a small wooden rattle and hidden it in my bedroom closet, because buying it early somehow felt like tempting fate. I was excited to become a grandfather. But excitement was not permission.
Seventeen months earlier, Nate and Brianna had moved in after Nate lost his job. “A few months,” they said. I gave them two bedrooms. They offered rent. Then Nate landed a good position. Brianna rebuilt her freelance business. But those few months stretched. One bedroom became Nate’s permanent office. Their groceries took over most of the pantry. A new couch appeared because Brianna had decided mine was uncomfortable. Whenever I asked about apartments, the answers were always the same: “We’re watching the market.” “Nothing makes sense right now.” “We’re saving.”
I wanted to help. So I waited.
That night, Nate came home from the gym and found me sitting at the kitchen table.
“Good trip?” he asked.
“Sit down.”