Silence falls over the line. For a second, I think I might’ve lost signal. I hold my phone away to check—
—and Eleanor bursts into laughter.
“Oh, sweetie,” she wheezes, as if she’s drying away a tear or something, “you didn’t tell me you were going into comedy.”
“I’m really not.” Nothing about this conversation strikes me even remotely as funny. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself, though.”
“Honey,” she gasps, still between bursts of hilarity, “come on. There’s no way you’re pregnant.”
“I kind of am, though.”
I take a deep breath. Without thinking, I’ve started rubbing circles into my belly. “Nine months, actually,” I exhale at last, fighting to keep my tone even. “The baby’s due any day now. And since it’s your grandchild, I thought you should know.”
There, I huff mentally. Done. Whate
