Page 13 of Mismatched

“Exactly.” Celia beams. “Selfishly, I don’t want to miss any of his ‘firsts,’ but I also want to give him a good foundation. When I was pregnant, I spent a lot of time reading and thinking about the relationships we nurture. What we can give of ourselves that really lasts. If I stay home, I can be the one who’s there for Gabe if he’s hurt or sad, or if he needs anything. If I go back to work... someone else will do that. It just feels like a gift I can give him. One he’ll have forever.”

“Makes sense,” Anton says in a faraway voice.

Celia gives my husband a gentle smile. “Maybe your mom felt the same way.”

I open my mouth, sure there is something I need to say, even if I don’t know what. But my nephew saves me, screwing up his precious, nurtured face and letting loose a shriek like a banshee. I watch my skilled, confident, life-coach sister as she rocks her infant gently, then moves to a more vigorous bounce before offering a pacifier he immediately spits out. Finally, she sniffs his diaper with a look of semi-desperation.

“He might be hungry,” she says evenly, as if the sound isn’t threatening to shatter the windows. “Is there somewhere I can?—”

“Our room. Just down the hall,” I say, jumping up to bustle her away. As soon as she’s situated in the small armchair by our bed, I exit the room, my shoulders sagging in relief. I’m not sure if it’s Celia or the wailing I need a break from, but the tension in my body eases as soon as I pull the door closed.

“Wow,” I say, slinking into the kitchen. “Can you believe?—”

“I know. She’s such a natural,” Anton says. “I never thought I’d say it, but motherhood seems to suit your sister.”

That is not what I was going to say, but I shut my mouth, watching him pull the lasagna tray out of the oven. I only got home an hour ago, and we were so busy preparing for Celia’s visit, I hadn’t had a chance to really check in with him. I took it as a positive sign that he wanted company at all, but he looks completely different than he did this morning. His movements efficient and animated. Confident. Not distracted the way he’s been the last few days.

I don’t know what broke him out of his funk, but I don’t want to waste the moment.

“Dinner smells wonderful,” I say, wrapping my arms around his waist. And to my delight, he pulls me into his warmth. He smells like basil and oregano, and Anton. I breathe him in, letting go of everything we’ve been through this past week. Forgetting Dallas, my meeting with Henry. Not even letting myself dread getting through dinner with Celia.

“I came home early, so I had extra time to throw everything together.”

I pull back, feeling stupid. Of course. He didn’t prepare this whole meal after work. “Did something happen?”

He shrugs, slicing a few tomatoes to add to the salad. “You were right. I guess I need a little more time.”

I frown, looking around the messy kitchen. Anton’s lasagna recipe came from his mom. He always makes it when he’s missing her. “I’m sorry. This was too much to ask of you.”

He shakes his head, glancing down the hall leading to our room. “Actually, making dinner for you and your sister, meeting the baby... I don’t know. It’s refreshing. Nice to have something new to focus on.”

A timer goes off on the stove. Anton moves to stir some kind of sauce and I withdraw to set the table. By the time my sister emerges—with a sleeping baby, thank God—we’re just setting out the food.

“Do you want to lay him down somewhere?” Anton whispers, looking uncertain.

Celia raises her chin and shakes her head. “No. He should stay like this for at least an hour. I’ve gotten really good at eating with one hand.”

Again, something about my sister’s demeanor strikes me as so... different. I can’t put my finger on it, but I am almost totally sure our mom would never have held either of us through a meal.

“Thank you,” she says when I set a plate of lasagna and asparagus down in front of her. “Anton, this looks divine.”

We go about eating in relative silence. Celia isn’t quite the one-handed expert she professed to be, and I glance warily at the sleeping infant each time her fork clatters against the china, but he remains a peaceful little cherub. Actually, now that he isn’t shrieking, I have to admit he looks pretty sweet.

“So, what’s new, Ce? Um, besides the obvious.” I gesture stupidly at the baby. “Is Mom at your house like, twenty-four seven? She makes it sound like she’s Super Grandma.”

My sister’s jaw tightens, her eyes flashing ever so slightly. “Not sure I’d quite call it that.”

“Really?” I niggle, sensing something I can rub a little salt in, for old time’s sake. “I thought grandbabies were the new black.”

To my surprise, Celia cracks a small smile. “Yeah, I thought so too. She did offer to come over and ‘help’ me once. But that consisted of taking a few selfies with Gabe to send to her friends and leaving when he started crying. So I guess, yeah, Super Grandma had super-important other things to do.”

I nearly laugh out loud, only because this sounds exactly how I would expect our mom to grandma. But I’m also not sure what to say. If Marion Stanton could have made a list detailing what she wanted in a daughter, Celia checks all the boxes. Beautiful and popular, she launched a successful career, then married a handsome doctor and produced a handsome grandchild. But the real letdown in my sister’s voice shifts something in my chest, and I actually feel kind of bad for her.

I am jarred out of my thoughts as Celia’s fork tumbles to the floor, landing next to my shoe. She lets out a defeated sigh, looking from the sleeping baby in her arms to the plate where she’s barely made a dent in her food.

Anton and I glance at each other. We’re both mostly finished, and it occurs to me I need to not be like our mom. I should offer to take my nephew—hold him, so she can eat. But when my eyes drop to her snoozing bundle, my skin goes clammy and the words don’t come. What I finally say is, “I’ll get you another fork.”

As soon as I step into the kitchen, I feel stupid. It’s not like the baby is going to bite. But as I re-enter the dining room with a clean utensil, my pulse kicks right back up.

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