Before my pregnancy, I had worked as an interior designer specializing in small apartments. Daniel loved teasing me about it.
“You can fit an entire kitchen into a closet, Emma,” he used to say, “but you can’t ask a waiter for another napkin.”
“I don’t like bothering people,” I would tell him.
“You’re allowed to need things, sweetheart.”
After Daniel died, I stopped working. Then I discovered that our savings were almost gone.
My mother, Patricia, insisted that I move in with her.
“Emma, you’re having a baby in a few weeks,” Mom said. “Let me help. I’ll cover the hospital expenses.”
“I’ll move in, Mom,” I said. “But I’m paying for my flight.”
“At least let me book business class.”
“No. You’ve done enough.”
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