Literally. My sister Maureen, heavy with child, as they say in my grandparents’ Bible, flies in from Calgary. Grandma and Grandpa, my mom’s parents, drive in from their retirement village in Kelowna. They’re dressed, as usual, in matching golf outfits—white pants, peach-colored shirts and spotless white shoes. Nana, my dad’s mom, takes the ferry over from Victoria. We all sit in the living room. We’re pretty squished, and I offer to sit on the floor, but they won’t hear of it. “Not in your condition, honey,” Grandma says. It’s been like this. Kid gloves. My parents have been hovering, doing everything for me. Pouring my cereal. Making my bed. It would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic. “Would anybody like something to drink?” my mom asks. Everybody says they’re fine. “You should have something, Bren,” Maureen says. “I don’t want anything.” “Milk? Juice? Something to keep your strength up.” “I’m not thirsty!” I snap. Everybody looks at me. Temper, temper.
