That was the thought that kept undoing her.
Would his eyes go wide first? Would he stare at her stomach like the universe had just placed a crown there? Would he laugh? Would he tremble? Would he kneel? Would he press his forehead gently against her belly and speak to the child as though the baby already understood him?
Knowing Phei, he would probably do all of those things in some chaotic order and then ask if she had eaten, slept, walked too much, breathed correctly, and whether the floor had dared to be too hard beneath her feet.
The boy could turn concern into a national emergency with no committee approval.
Very impressive. Very exhausting. Very loved.
And then — she knew this part with absolute, scandalous certainty — somewhere in the middle of all that tenderness, he would crack a joke:
Some dry, ridiculous, perfectly-timed little thing about already being outnumbered by women in his own home and now manufacturing more of them.
