***
Fifteen minutes later, Dana returned, parked the SUV, got out, opened the tailgate, and dug around in the back. I could hear her muttering to herself. Something rustled and clunked.
A minute later, she came back, dragging a long package wrapped in brown paper.
I waited anxiously for her return.
“What is that?” I asked curiously.
“A little parenting lesson,” Dana said quietly, hoisting the package higher. “Left over from the lake trip in July. I never got around to unwrapping it. Come with me. You don’t want to miss this.”
“Dana, it’s the middle of the night.”
“Exactly.”
She opened my car door and offered me her hand. I took it. My back cracked as I straightened up, and she winced right along with me.
“Come with me.”
“Sweetheart,” my MIL said quietly, “you should not be doing this. Not at eight months. Actually, not ever. Not for one single night.”
I looked down, ashamed.
***
We started up the three flights of stairs together. Dana went first, the package balanced across both arms as if it were a rifle in an old war movie. I followed, one hand on the railing and one hand under my belly.
Halfway up, I stopped.
“You should not be doing this.”
“Dana, wait. He’s going to be furious,” I whispered.
“Good.”
“He’ll blame me.”
My MIL turned onto the landing and looked me dead in the eye.
“Emma. Listen to me. You’ve done nothing wrong. Do you hear me? Nothing. You’re growing a whole human being in a body that hurts. In a car. In a parking lot. In this August heat.”
I nodded, but my chin wobbled.
“He’ll blame me.”
“Tonight,” Dana said more softly, “you’re going to stand behind me. You’re going to let me talk. And then you’re going to sleep in your own bed. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She squeezed my hand and started climbing again.
When we reached my door, Dana straightened her bathrobe, shifted the package under her arm, and knocked three sharp times.
It took a few minutes, then I heard Ryan’s footsteps stumbling toward the door.
“You’re going to stand behind me.”
