So, it's Sunday, and I'm meeting Belle in the park. Adam is off talking with Kristoff and Joan, so we have a moment to just talk. We're lucky it's not actually raining, just kind of cold. Cold enough for me to wear a jacket, at least. Belle looks adorable in Adam's old jacket—it's just too big for her. A stiff breeze forces us to shelter behind one of the larger trees.

"I think…" Belle starts quietly, her voice tentative. "I think we're going to keep the baby."

"You've talked this over with Adam, I assume?" She frowns at me. Once again my bluntness is underselling my assumption of people's good intention. It still seems like quite a snap decision, given yesterday we were talking about six weeks to decide in.

"We've talked, Anna. A lot, last night. He thinks it might help—and he's said if he can't control himself he'll move." She seems quite sure, confident in the decision. Still, I can hear the tremor in her voice when she says Adam will move if he needs to. I know what they mean to each other, and how hard such a separation might be.

"He's not moving too far, I hope."

Belle shakes her head. "No, a few blocks maybe, somewhere he can afford a small apartment."

"If he needs help moving, we've got the van."

"Thanks for the offer, but this isn't for a long time yet." She's right. This is something they can put off for a while yet. Maybe third trimester is when they need to start getting serious about any arrangements like she mentioned.

"That's fair enough," I lean around the trunk of the tree, watching for the others. They seem to be playing some form of ball. Rules optional. "So, any other reason you might might have for talking to me alone?"

"Well, yeah, I was going to ask if you had any pregnancy books I could borrow?" I had at least a couple, I think they were one of the last things you bought for me, before…

I blink away a tear, giving her a searching look. "You've heard of the internet, right?"

"Don't be like that, Anna. You know I like books."

I'm staring at the grass, appropriately contrite. I should be more serious. "I do. I think I've got one or two books up in the attic—I'll have a look when we get home."

Then she leans over and pulls me into a tight hug. I hug her back—I remember how hard it was pregnant with Joan, the first few months, even with Kristoff's support. Nothing else needs to be said, and we walk back to the others, Belle pulling Adam aside for a quick whispered discussion. His face betrays nothing, but eventually he nods, smiling at all of us. He gestures for Belle to open up. She still looks nervous, as if she's not quite sure how to say it to everyone.

"Umm…" Why is she looking at me? Woman, you got yourself into this, you get yourself out of it.

Kristoff is looking at her and Adam rather expectantly. "Well?"

"I'm pregnant." I have to give her points for the accidental deadpan delivery. I smile, waiting for the penny to drop for everyone else.

"Congratulations!" And Kristoff has wrapped her in one of his trademark bear hugs before Adam can even react.

Joan's looking at her, head cocked to one side, obviously still processing. Belle shoots me a guilty look as Kristoff sets her down. I shake my head and smile for her. It's no big deal. At least I don't have to keep it secret anymore. Joan's edging closer, a nervous smile on her lips.

"Can I… can I touch it?"

Belle laughs, leaving Joan looking quite confused. "You do realise you're not going to feel anything, right?"

"Umm… yeah. I totally knew that." Her expression says anything but.

I give her a pointed look. "Young lady, I've seen your health class homework."

"Hey! No fair using homework against me," she looks at the ground, one foot scraping stones from the path. "Plus, it's not like me and Tink have that risk."

I move closer to her, close enough to wrap an arm around her shoulders. She tries to shrug away for a moment, then relents. "With you and Tina it's going to be a deliberate choice that you make—you, or her—but it's just that; a choice." I lower my voice, just for her. "We can talk more about this later, if you want."

She nods once, then lifts my arm from her shoulder and moves closer to Belle. "You know, I think we should invite you over for dinner to celebrate."

Belle has a happy laugh. It sings through the trees. "You know I'm stealing all your father's best recipes, right?"

"Who wouldn't?" And Joan gives her a surprisingly crooked grin. A grin that's almost painful for me to remember.


Dinner is nothing fancy, but Belle is helping us—me and Kristoff—prep. A fancy chicken and pasta dish with white sauce, and a side of mixed greens. Kristoff is telling Belle how to properly simmer a sauce, while I work around them dicing the chicken. Joan and Adam are in the lounge, and I can hear occasional peals of laughter. Old re-runs of the Simpsons again. I peek out for a moment to see what episode it is—the classic April Fool's prank. It's weird to think a show over fifty years old has aged so well. Anyway, back to work, and after much bustling around and bumping into each other—or me into Kristoff as Belle frowns at us, dinner can be left in Kristoff's capable hands.

"If you've got this, I'll do a quick look around the attic for those books." Kristoff just waves me upstairs. I turn to Belle. "You do realise you'll be helping, right?"

I love the rabbit-in-the-headlights expression she's wearing. "What?"

"The attic's still a bit of a mess, it'll go faster with two people."

"Oh, okay." She doesn't sound convinced, but she follows me up there anyway. It's brighter than it used to be, and it's more organised too. She's not really sure where to start, so I direct her to a pile where I think I left some old books. There are some there, but none of my old pregnancy books. I know she likes books, but these things have to be at least a decade out of date. Okay, I mean, sure, the basics are always gonna be the same, but it's small detail changes that might catch her out. Then again, she's a smart, and old books probably wouldn't be her only source of information. Probably just as well I didn't say that one out loud. Undermining people too often recently.

And there's one book in the pile on my side of the attic. Well, that's something at least. I hand it to her and she starts helping on this side of the attic. Rain starts splashing against the roof, and I have to stop myself looking around wistfully. I remember a time you dragged me up here, just to enjoy the rain itself. Just us, and somehow nothing between us that night. I felt like a naughty kid, but it felt so good, somehow. I still wonder if I'll ever find another person with that same spark you had.

We've only found two books—I think I had three, but I'm not sure anymore—and now the others are shouting at us to come down for dinner. I don't know what it is, but I just feel closer to you up here. Maybe that's your ghost, hiding in the attic all this time. I don't know why it's taken so long for me to see it… or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see, looking through rose coloured glasses. Or maybe—and I really hope this one is true—telling your story really is bringing you back in some small way. I'm remembering more, flashes here and there. I like it.

Dinner is kind of chaos. The best kind. Everyone's talking at once, and even I'm having trouble getting words in edgewise. Frontwise too. I've lost track of the sheer number of things we've been talking about. Currently Kristoff and Adam are talking about baby-proofing supplies, Belle's talking with Joan about her ambitions and her studies—Literature major. I should've guessed, really, given her love of books. Or maybe she told me in the past and I forgot. Either way, it's good hearing her talk with Joan like this.

The conversation turns to Joan's long term plans. She just looks at me helplessly. I give her a look, gentler than usual. "It's your life, baby, you get to decide what you want to do with it."

"Y'know, some direction might be nice, mom."

"Fine, be a doctor then." Her and Belle laugh, and I can hear Kristoff chuckling about something too. "Oh, and if you've got your life together by fifteen, you've done better than me."

"I don't think you're helping, Anna," Belle smiles at me, somehow already in on the joke.

"I'm not." It's the deadpan delivery that gets them both.

"Mom, could you please be serious?" I can see the look Joan's giving me. It's actually a new one—she really wants help with this; or at least thinks she needs help with it.

And then, from the far end of the table: "You could always be an astronaut." Joan just shakes her head and facepalms. Well done, Reindeer King.

"What if we talk about this later?" I give my daughter an appraising look. "Seriously. Cards on the table. Just talk, no commitments."

Joan nods slowly, taking it in. Then she smiles, nodding more enthusiastically. "Totally. We'll do it."

"Was that… parenting?" Belle's looking at me, somewhat bemused.

I smile at her. "Pretty sure it was."

That seems to have been the signal that dinner is over, everyone standing and gathering dishes, moving stuff to the sink. I start rinsing any remaining crap off the dishes and get out the dish racks. The conversation continues behind me, and after a few minutes Belle and Adam say their goodbyes, heading back to their place. From the flush I saw in Belle's cheeks, it's entirely possible they'll be celebrating another way—after all, she's already pregnant. Kristoff passes through and gives me a peck on the cheek, which I return heartily, and then he heads upstairs to start drawing up our next project.

Joan's just standing in the corner of the kitchen, after seeing our guests out. She's not even holding a dish towel. I flick one from the rack at her and she catches it, starting to slowly dry and put away the dishes. I know she wants to talk. I also know she's not quite sure where to start on this one—hence, the silence. I give her an opening.

"Look, at fifteen I had no idea what I wanted to do, just that I was really good at shop class, and that that was kinda weird for a girl."

"Like, really?" I can hear a steady, slow clatter as she puts away the plates. "No plans at all?"

"Well, vague stuff. Get a job. Get married. Maybe have kids. Pretty normal, I'd say—even for kids today, right?"

"Yeah," she agrees absently. "Vague is right. And didn't you say we'd be talking about something else too?"

"I did," I nod absently as I wash the dishes. "But that's probably more of a sit down conversation for later, okay—plus, you really want the possibility of your dad walking in on that one?"

"Umm, well… no, not really. Not that kind of talk."

"Didn't think so. Anyway, you want… well, what do you want?"

There is a tellingly lengthy pause. She makes to say something, then reconsiders it. And again. Then she frowns at me. "That is not fair making me think about it like that."

I give her glance over my shoulder. "I think it's perfectly fair. It's not like I can tell you what you want."

"Couldn't you like… give me some solid direction or something?" She actually sounds a little exasperated. I frown, washing the dishes on autopilot, trying to figure it out. Did she want me to force her down a set path?

I shake my head to clear it before I reply. "I didn't want to force you into anything you might resent doing later. Look, I get it, you want some direction, but I'm not sure how to do it. My parents just told me to do something I liked. I guess it worked well enough, because I like this job, and it feels fulfilling to finish a project, and I never minded working with my hands—but you're not me, so I can't just tell you to do this one thing that'll work for you. I can give you plenty of suggestions, but you've got to make the choice."

"But what if choose wrong?" I can see the look in her eyes.

"Then choose again. A great number of people don't get it right first time, or second time. Some people don't even realise until they're forty or fifty."

"Kinda not helping, mom."

I spread my hands equivocally. "I'm just telling you what it's like. I'm not trying to be discouraging."

"O–kay," she draws the word out as long as possible. She really isn't convinced. She's also stopped putting the dishes away. I point back to the cupboards.

"I can help you narrow it down, but I'm not gonna say you have to do this." I have a moment to think before she replies. "And what about careers day at school?"

"It's a week," she gives me a long suffering look. "And it's not until next year."

"Well, I'm going to say you need to go to that, and try all the possible things they offer you."

"Wait, everything?"

"Unless there's something you seriously object to going on, yes, all the things."

"Why?"

"You think being an engineer was my first idea for a career path?"

"Umm…" she looks at me guiltily. "Yes?"

"Hah. No," I turn to smile at her, the dishes all washed. "I figured I'd be an auto-mechanic or something, and maybe just weld on the occasional towbar or fender. Or exhaust, maybe. Come home at the end of the day covered in grease after having made someone else's car or bike work again."

"So did you try it?"

"It was boring. Sure, I figured I'd be fairly good at it, but it just wasn't me. And then this other trade school thing pops up the next day, and dad suggested I try it. 'Workshop Engineering' it was called. I mean, I was kinda dubious at first—I had no idea what workshop engineering even was. But the trade school thing was good, and I decided to finish high school a year early to attend the trade school full time. It might have been the best decision I ever made—except maybe having you."

"Maybe?"

I point to the skunk stripe at my right temple and wink. "This is just some of the worry you've caused me over the years."

She rolls her eyes at me. "Well played. But that only kinda helps me," she looks around helplessly after putting the last of the cutlery away. "How do I decide what's me?"

"You figure it out one step at a time. And you ask for help. Nobody ever said you had to do it alone."

"That's… that's actually really… thanks, mom," she reaches out to hug me, and I wrap my arms around her. "We'll talk about the other thing another time."

"We will," I promise her. "Now go, you've done your chores for tonight, and I know you need a shower before school."

She's just about to give me a mutinous look as I point upstairs.

"Go. Get clean. Use that time to think. I do."

"Well, when you're not entertain—"

"Just go, little miss sass."

She pokes her tongue out as she retreats through the door. I get the feeling any choice she makes will be the right one. I'll support her anyway—she's our daughter, after all.