“Gena, do you have something to tellllll meeeeee?” my grandmother asks through the phone, drawing out the end of the sentence as if to tease me.
Of course, I know where she’s going with this question.
“Nanny, I’m pregnant!” I say.
“How come you didn’t tell me!” she asks, slightly teasing, but slightly confused. I feel like she’s trying to figure out if we’ve had this conversation before, like it’s starting to sound familiar but she doesn’t know why.
“Ma,” I hear my grandfather chime in from somewhere in their house. “You already knew that.” Thank goodness I don’t have to say it. I hate admitting to her we’ve already had this same conversation many times in the last six months.
“Oh, Gena, I’m so happy for you. When are you due?”