started the way it always does—with a loaded lunch conversation.
“Have you and Michael tried having a baby? Your biological clock is ticking, Nancy. You need to hurry up.”
That was Lillian, my mother-in-law, stirring her iced tea like she was stirring my uterus.
“We’re taking our time, Lillian,” I said politely, masking my irritation with a smile I’ve perfected over years of unwanted advice.
“In our family, four kids is the norm,” she pressed. “Michael was one of four. I was one of five. It’s tradition.”
I nodded, pushing a lettuce leaf across my plate. Across from me, Michael squeezed my hand—our silent signal for deep breaths, it’ll be over soon.
