Page 57 of Marrying the Pakhan

HARPER

Ginger’s mid-rinse in the bath when she stops scrubbing shampoo out of her own hair long enough to point directly at my stomach.

“Your tummy’s getting big.”

I glance down at myself, at the curve that’s gone from barely noticeable to genuinely visible over the last couple of weeks, and I should have expected this conversation sooner than sixteen weeks in, honestly.

“It is,” I say. “That’s the baby. Growing.”

Ginger’s whole face changes, curiosity overtaking the half-finished bath entirely. “The baby’s in there? Right now?”

“Right now.”

“How’d it get in there?”

I choke slightly on absolutely nothing. “That’s a conversation for when you’re older.”

“Older like next year?”

“Older like considerably more than next year.”

She accepts this with the particular grace of a kid who’s learned some questions get answers and some just get deflected, and moves straight on to the next one without missing a beat.

“Does it hurt? Having a whole baby in your tummy?”

“Not really. Sometimes my back aches a little. Mostly it’s just strange, feeling something move around in there that isn’t me.”

“It moves?”

“A little. You’ll be able to feel it soon, if you put your hand right here.”

She presses her wet palm flat against my stomach with total concentration, waiting, disappointed when nothing happens on command. “I don’t feel anything.”

“It’s still pretty small. Give it a few more weeks.”

“Okay.” She goes back to rinsing her hair, apparently satisfied for exactly ninety seconds before the next question surfaces. “Is it going to take my room?”

“No, honey. The baby’s getting its own room. Nobody’s taking yours.”

“Good. Because I just got my room how I like it.” She says this with the gravity of someone discussing a major real estate decision rather than a collection of stuffed animals and one lopsided dinosaur poster. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Can you find out?”

“We could. We decided to wait and be surprised.”

Ginger considers this decision with visible skepticism, clearly finding the whole concept of voluntary suspense baffling. “That seems hard.”

“It is a little hard.”

“I’d want to know right away.” She dunks her head briefly, resurfacing with water streaming down her face. “Can it hear us right now?”

“Actually, yes. Its ears are working by now, I think. It can probably hear your voice.”

Ginger’s eyes go enormous at that information, and she leans down toward my stomach with the total seriousness of a diplomat addressing a foreign dignitary. “Hi, baby. It’s me. Ginger. I’m going to be your big sister, and I already know how to push swings really high, so you’re going to like me a lot.”

“Very compelling introduction.”