Angels Wear Blue Jumpsuits

Part 17

"That there is a penis."

Not words that one hears daily unless you're the sonographer who's just informed us that we're having a son.

Somehow, this is more exciting to me than the concept of a girl. If I'm being honest, I don't think I'd make a very good mother to one. But being a mother to a boy? The idea feels more natural to me. I've always been able to understand and relate better to boys. So in my mind, it makes sense that I could raise one better than a girl. I hope he looks like you. With your warm eyes, smile, dark hair and bright heart. Just not your shoulders. My body won't appreciate giving birth to something of that width, thank you very much. I hope he gets my dimples, my sass and creativity. But it's fine if he doesn't. He can be whoever he wants, as long as he's happy– like your father.

He's even happier than the initial news of getting a future grandchild. Because now that he knows he's getting a grandson– your dad has become a small boy who's just been told he's getting a PS5– pro.

"Good effort, son!!" he exclaims. I have to laugh. 'Good effort.' Such a funny compliment to give, under the circumstances. Almost like he's telling you 'congrats, you're good at impregnation.'

Well, he isn't wrong, is he?

My mother is equally delighted. She has a soft spot for baby boys too. I know this because she's a kindergarten teacher and looks after newborns to two-year-olds. Most of her fondest work stories revolve around baby boys.

Your reaction to the news, however? I can't gauge it. I don't think even you can.

You seem to drift between moments of emotional overwhelmedness and stunned awe. You cry at random intervals and other times, stare off into space. You felt your son kick the other night with your hand upon my stomach. Your expression matched your dad's– PS5 Pro news.

Speaking of surprising information– our landlord visits while you're at work. With a heavy heart, he announces that he's putting the house on the market. We're given one month to move out and I cry after he leaves.

No, it's not my house, but it feels like it is. It's become our home, filled with memories and I want to create more under its roof. You arrive home that night to find me sulking on the couch with a massive bowl of popcorn– ready salted with my own tears.

"Baby?" you ask, throwing your jacket onto a chair, "what's wrong?"

"Landlord's selling the house," I sniffle and stuff down another handful, "we have to move out in four weeks."

You blink at me about seven times before sighing. "Oh."

"I don't want to leave," I frown a toddler's expression, "I like it here."

You join me on the couch. "Me too."

We sit in silence, laced with my obnoxious crunching of popcorn. I toss the bowl into the sink and tell you I'm going to bed. You stay on the couch, deeply contemplative. The next day, I'm avoiding looking for another place to rent, as if yesterday didn't happen. And as you end a lengthy, private phone call in the bedroom, it's as if it hadn't.

"Who was that?" I ask. You tuck your phone into your pocket with a smile.

"Our landlord," you say, "and the bank– I secured the house."

I shake my head, thinking I've misheard you. "What house?"

"This house."

"You... you bought it?!"

"Well," you shrug, "some of it. The rest is on a home loan with the bank."

I glance around, looking for someone else to be as shocked as I am but it's just Arya clawing the couch. You begin rinsing the salted Napa cabbages in the kitchen– you make the Kimchi now– yours is better.