Me: Mam, will you come and sit down. I have something to tell you and papa?
Mother shoots a look in our direction, carries on at kitchen sink.
Me: Mam, please come and sit down. It's important.
Mother looks again then crosses kitchen to wipe her hands on a dishcloth, moving the butter dish just a little bit this way, just a little bit that. Most unlike her.
Mother: J'arrives, J'arrives!
She sits down, dresses plastic flowered tablecloth with her hands.
I inhale, deeply.
Me: Foca wanted to come but I thought it better if I told you myself.
Father: Are you getting married?
Me: On no papa, (nervous laugh, almost relieved), no. We haven't known each other long enough for that. No, I'm having a baby.
Father: (circles base of wine glass with thumb and forefinger, leans back into his chair). What have young people got against marriage these days?
Colour drains from mother's face