Hormonal mood swings were to be expected, according to Samira’s OB/GYN.

Even so, Samira found herself grossly unprepared for the sight of the Sold sign on the front lawn of her parents’ tiny Cape Cod early the following Saturday morning. Nor was she ready for the stacked boxes, disarranged furniture and general commotion inside the house when she let herself in bearing a box of pastries. All the family pictures had come down off the walls, and her mother’s menagerie of tiny crystal animals were gone from the china cabinet. As for her father’s massive collection of TV show DVDs (the entire series of The Waltons and Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, for example), Samira hoped they’d been donated to some senior center and were not waiting to be packed into the fifty-odd boxes they would surely require, but she doubted it. Her luck had never been that good.

“Mom? Dad?”

No answer. Just muffled voices and thumping in one of the bedrooms. Then tags jangled, toenails clicked and the dogs glided in from the hallway. They immediately sandwiched her between their lean bodies, their long snouts up in the air as their noses worked overtime to sniff out the treats she held overhead, well out of their reach.

“Don’t even try it.” She laughed as Vinnie gave her a particularly soulful brown-eyed look. “I’m immune to your silent begging.”

Extricating herself, Samira wove her way through the ordered chaos to the kitchen table, where she set the box and her keys down, absently scratching the dogs’ velvety heads as she tried to conquer her pangs of nostalgia.

Her childhood home, gone.

It wasn’t that she’d expected her parents to live in a state of suspended animation, putting their lifelong retirement plans on hold on the off chance that Samira would one day want/need to return to her old bedroom.

It was just that she hadn’t expected to feel this shaken by the loss of this touchstone in her life.

But then, rarely had she had such an upheaval-filled week.

The biggest change? Baptiste’s return to France for his meetings.

“I’ll be back in two weeks,” he’d told her on Monday, setting his packed Louis Vuitton overnight bag on the floor of her foyer and enveloping her in his arms.

“I know.”

She said it with a bright smile that was part of her ongoing campaign to fake it till she made it. While she might be inwardly terrified over the ongoing potential for miscarriage until she hit that crucial twelve-week mark, the baby was, according to that morning’s ultrasound, alive with a strong heartbeat and a nicely bean-shaped little body. The cramps had stopped altogether and might have been caused by ligament pain and/or dehydration.

So all was well on the baby front at the moment.

And, true, she still felt unsure about the future of her relationship with Baptiste, but that didn’t mean she needed to curl up in the fetal position on her sofa with a blankie and a cup of Earl Grey. Did she want to? Of course. But that wasn’t how she’d rolled up till now, and she wasn’t going to start.

“I’ll see you soon,” she added.

He tipped up her chin and gave her a pointed look, as though he knew everything running through her head. Honestly, there were times, like now, when she thought he’d commissioned schematics of her thought process so he could study her ins and outs at his leisure. The way he read her mind was exceptionally disconcerting, as was pretty much everything else about him.

“You will see me soon,” he said firmly.

“Didn’t I just say that?”

They smiled at each other in a moment of perfect understanding.

Things had been a bit awkward between them since the other night. Their mating dance had become a bit more delicate, and they remained on pins and needles about the baby.

But right here and now, they occupied the exact same space:

He didn’t want to go anywhere without her, and she damn sure didn’t want to let him go.

“Remember what the doctor said.” He kissed her forehead, then let his lips brush it as he spoke. “It wouldn’t hurt if you wanted to get some rest for a day or two.”

“But I don’t want,” she reminded him. “And it’s not going to make a difference one way or the other, except it might drive me insane if I had to sit around for too long.”

He frowned and opened his mouth.

“And,” she continued loudly, “I’ll be going to all my Krav Maga classes. Just so you know.”

He pulled back, his expression now tight with exasperation. “Why not pretend a little, just to make me feel better? I’ll be gone. I’ll never know the truth. What could it hurt?”

She had to laugh. “You would think something was wrong if I sat around.”

“You’re right,” he said glumly, pressing his lips to her forehead again. “If I called and you said you were resting quietly, I would fly right back again to see what was the matter.”

They laughed together until he pulled her all the way into his arms. She held on for all she was worth while he kissed her cheek and the side of her neck.

“I don’t want to leave you.” His voice turned thick with emotion. “It’s killing me.”

“Don’t say that,” she said, her kisses equally fervent. “We’ll see each other soon.”

“Yes, and when I come back, things will be different,” he said in her ear. “First of all, I expect you to be much more fluent in French. How are you coming?”

“Très bien, monsieur.”

“Travel French that fools no one,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Pathetic.”

She pulled a tragic face and threw a hand over her heart. “Je suis profondément désolée.”

“You’re not sorry at all. And don’t try to distract me from my list.”

“Continuez, monsieur.”

His lips twitched at the corners. “Second, I’m not hiding my feelings anymore. If my heart tells me to say I love you a hundred times a day, I will. You’ll get used to it. And you’ll say it back to me when you’re ready. Third, when we have an event, we go together.”

“Baptiste—”

“Finally,” he said firmly, “when I come back, we need to work on remodeling our house so it’ll be ready by the time the baby comes. So make sure you keep watching our home improvement shows.”

By that point, her anxieties had begun to kick up their little feet. So many changes, so quickly. She stiffened involuntarily, but he tightened his hold. And she held on for dear life. Her mind might be full of yeah, buts (yeah, but what if you get back to Paris and decide you miss the bright lights and big city; yeah, but we’re in the honeymoon phase now, but what if we fall apart six months from now?), but her heart only had one coherent thought:

I love you.

She pulled back and did her best to regenerate that carefree smile on her face.

“You should go. Your pilot will be waiting.”

Another flicker of exasperation crossed his expression. “The pilot is paid to wait until I get there. Don’t try to ferret out of the question.”

“Weasel.”

“Whatever.”

They dimpled at each other.

“Je t’aime, ma reine,” he said.

Her responsive I love you, too was right on the tip of her tongue, but unfortunately blocked by an invisible brick wall that seemed to originate at the base of her burning throat.

“I hope you still t’aime me when you come back,” she said instead.

“You’ll see.” He stared her in the face, his green eyes direct and unwavering. “It took me this long to know what it’s like to fall in love. I’m not taking it back now.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

His intense gaze held hers. “Don’t forget me while I’m gone.”

“What are the chances of that?”

“We’ll be phoning and video chatting and texting—and sexting, of course—so the chances are zero.”

He’d been gone five days. Seven more days until he came back and she could breathe again.

Meanwhile, her parents were also leaving. They were entitled to spend their retirement wherever they wanted to, she sternly told herself; it had nothing to do with her. So she was determined to send them on their way without any tears, despite her wacky hormones.

She took a deep breath. Steadied her nerves.

“Mom? Dad?”

The dogs gave her a final nuzzle and took off for parts unknown.

“Samira?” Footsteps hurried down the hall ahead of Rhoda, who appeared with an open box and a delighted grin. She swooped in for a kiss and set her box on the table. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you were here?”

“Just got here. Where’s Dad?”

“I’m here.” Joe’s gravelly voice sounded aggrieved as he rounded the corner and came into view, also carrying a box. “Your mother’s got me shuttling boxes like a pack mule. She doesn’t care how old and tired I am.”

“Hush, Joe.” Rhoda flapped a hand. “No one cares about your tale of woe.”

“That’s the problem,” Joe muttered.

Eyeballing their matching sweatsuits (Rhoda’s in red; Joe’s in the standard heather gray), Samira went to the cabinet for the paper plates. “Do you folks want to stop for doughnuts now, or do you want to keep working a little while longer?”

Her parents exchanged a look.

Rhoda cleared her throat. “We’d like to talk to you first, honey.”

Samira looked around in surprise, hoping some shoe wasn’t about to drop on her head. Things in her life were unsettled enough just now, thanks. The one good thing? She hadn’t told them about the baby (she wasn’t up to discussing it with anyone just yet, and she didn’t dare raise their hopes for a new grandchild until she hit her second trimester), so she knew that wasn’t the topic at hand.

“What’s up?” she asked warily.

“Let’s sit down,” Rhoda said. “Joe, push those boxes back so we can see each other. There you go.”

They sat around the kitchen table.

“I’m sorry your birth mother treated you like that, Samira,” Rhoda said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Oh, that.

“It’s okay.” Samira kept it upbeat, desperate to make all due assurances and get off this topic before she started with the waterworks again. “I haven’t even given it a second thought.”

Rhoda and Joe rolled their eyes at each other.

“What did I tell you?” Rhoda asked him.

“Well, she’s nothing if not predictable,” Joe said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Samira barked with a tinge of annoyance.

“Of course you’ve given it a second thought, honey,” Rhoda said, leveling those all-knowing mother’s eyes on her. “Why do you act like we’ve never met you and don’t know anything about you? You’ve been thinking about it and wondering what’s wrong with you or what you did wrong that she didn’t want you then and doesn’t want you now. You’re wondering if she has other children. You’re wondering about your father. You want to be a better mother when you have your own children. You’re wondering if you’ll ever have children. Am I right?”

Samira couldn’t answer.

She was too busy ducking her head and surreptitiously wiping her eyes.

So much for not getting weepy.

Her father squeezed her arm without a word. Luckily he didn’t try to hug her, which would have led to a round of sobbing hysteria, and no one wanted that.

“So we wanted to give you some things.” Rhoda pulled a small flat box out of her pocket, opened it and handed Samira something. “You were wearing this when the social worker brought you to us.”

Samira looked down and gasped.

It was a minuscule elastic bracelet made from round pink beads and a slightly larger center bead shaped like a heart.

“And we gave you this,” Rhoda said, putting something else in Samira’s hand.

It was a minuscule gold bracelet with a single heart-shaped charm engraved with Samira and her birth date on one side and Our Heart on the other.

Additional tears blurred Samira’s vision.

Luckily, her father always came prepared for such occasions and passed her his hankie.

“The thing about you, Samira, is that you always focus on what you think isn’t there,” Rhoda said. “In school, if you got all As and one A minus, that A minus would ruin your mood for days. If one little friend didn’t make it to your birthday party, but all the other kids did? Same thing. Your glass is always half empty and you never see that you have plenty to drink.”

Samira pressed the hankie to her mouth and tried to get her shit together.

“I think your birth mother made this for you, Samira. I think she was very young and scared. We’ve told you this before. And I should have given you the bracelet long ago—”

“I told her to give it to you, Samira,” Joe said.

“—but I was selfish. I was afraid if I gave you something from her…I don’t know what I was afraid of, to tell you the truth. I didn’t want you to find her and love her more than you love me.”

“Like that would happen,” Samira said.

“I’m sorry, Samira.”

“You were human, Mom.”

“Thank you for that, Sweetie. But she loved you enough to do the right thing and give you to people who were ready to be parents and provide a good home. She loved you enough to want you to have a memento from her.” Rhoda sighed. Tipped her head thoughtfully. “Why doesn’t she want to see you now? Who knows? But maybe her reasons have nothing to do with you. Maybe she’s not proud of the way her life turned out. Maybe she never told her family or her spouse. Maybe she thinks they’d judge her on religious grounds. Maybe she got pregnant when her husband was away—maybe he was in the military—and you were the product of an affair. We’ll never know, will we? All we do know is that your mother loved you enough to make you this little bracelet to keep with you. Enough to make sure you had the best possible chance at a good life. Okay?”

Samira nodded.

“This other bracelet? This is the one your father and I gave you—”

“I picked it out,” Joe interjected. “Soon as we heard you’d been born—”

“Yes, yes, we can hear about your shopping exploits later,” Rhoda said with a frown, waving him into silence. “The point is, we didn’t have much money, but we wanted you to have something special because you meant the world to us. We’d waited so long for you. And you wore both these little bracelets for months. Until they got too tight and we had to take them off.”

“Show her the albums,” Joe said, nudging Rhoda’s arm.

“Look, honey,” Rhoda said, standing up and pulling one of the boxes closer. “I want you to see these.”

“Oh, my God,” Samira said.

The boxes were full of photo albums, at least four or five per box.” She’d seen them around the house on various bookshelves, of course, but hadn’t paid them any attention in the last, oh, decade or so.

But now…

Choosing one at random, Samira discovered it contained pictures of toddler Samira, with chubby cheeks and red corduroy coveralls. Each picture had a caption written in her mother’s writing. Samira goes to day care, said one. Samira and Bunny, said another with Samira snuggled up to a stuffed animal she didn’t remember.

Samira picked up another album, which was the same. All Samira, all with her mother’s painstaking captions.

“We just couldn’t have loved you any harder, sweetie,” Rhoda said. “I know we didn’t give birth to you, but we loved you as hard as we knew how. Still do. Our moving out west won’t change that. Nothing will change that.”

“I know, Mom.”

Samira gave her eyes a final blot, handed the hankie back to her father and stood to give her mother—the only mother who counted—a big hug. Never had Samira been so sick of herself and her half-full glass. What was she doing? Indulging in what ifs and pining after a mother she’d never know when she had the world’s best and most loving mother right here? Holding Baptiste at arm’s length when he desperately wanted to give her the thing she desperately wanted—his love?

All because she hadn’t known him for the requisite number of days yet? Because she worried that he’d leave her one day? Was he supposed to pledge her a blood oath first? Which part of life on earth came with an ironclad guarantee?

Was she insane?

She reached for her father. “Love you too, Dad.”

“You womenfolk leave me out of the mushy stuff.” He planted a big kiss on her cheek, then turned away to hastily swipe a tear. “I ain’t got time to—”

A cell phone rang on the counter.

Actually, it started playing an all-too-familiar song.

“Is that the theme from Friends?” Samira asked her father.

“Hush, now. That’ll be J.B. checking in from France,” Joe said, hurrying to catch the phone before the song ended. “Yeah, hello? That you, J.B.? How’re you doing, man?”

Samira looked around at her mother, dumbstruck. “Baptiste is calling him?”

“That’s right,” Rhoda said.

“To talk about me?”

Exasperated sigh from Rhoda. “You are not the center of the known universe, Samira. I thought we’d cleared that up back when you were a kid.”

Samira blinked, stung.

“Let’s get a look at these,” Rhoda said, opening the bakery box. “Oh, cheese Danish. Perfect.”

“Since when does Baptiste call Dad?” Samira demanded in an undertone.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Rhoda reached for the paper plates and handed one to Samira. “They had fun fishing. Now Baptiste checks in every couple of days. He’s the sweetest boy.” She smiled fondly. “He asked what we wanted him to bring us back from Paris. We asked for some of those rainbow macarons. Oh, and he says he’s been wanting to restock one of the ponds near his house in the country. He’s been asking your father his thoughts on what kind of fish he should get. But you probably know all about that, sweetie.”

Samira didn’t know all about it.

Disgruntled, she glared across at her father’s beaming face as he chattered away.

Baptiste.

It wasn’t enough for the insidious Frenchman to worm his way into her heart uninvited. Oh, no. Now he had to make her parents fall in love with him as well. Good thing she didn’t have a dog or cat. It probably would have left her in favor of stowing away in Baptiste’s Louis Vuitton bag on the jet.

“Well, we’re almost finished with the back bedrooms, and the movers’ll be here first thing Monday,” Joe said into the phone. “Yeah, my back is holding up fine. I’m not trying to win any weightlifting awards.”

“What are they? Best friends now?” Samira asked her mother.

Rhoda shrugged and took a big bite of her Danish, mischief glimmering bright in her eyes.

“So how are things going with your distributors? They cutting you a good deal?” Joe perched the phone between cheek and shoulder and wandered over to select something. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, you can’t let them get away with that kind of nonsense. Uh-huh…”

Feeling unaccountably sulky now, Samira grabbed an apple fritter. The biggest one in the box. She took a giant sugar-filled bite and wondered what, exactly, she was fighting so hard against. Growing too attached to Baptiste? Letting him into her life? Counting on him? Loving him? Acting like she loved him?

All those ships had already left the dock, hadn’t they?

She missed him. They’d texted and video chatted every day since he’d been gone, but still.

She missed him.

Funny how the exact same existence she’d had for years before he arrived in her life now felt so strange without him. So incomplete.

Riding a sudden wave of inspiration, she put down her fritter, wiped her sticky fingers and reached for her phone.

“Well, I know you have your heart set on the carp, J.B.,” Joe said, heading to the fridge for a glass of milk. “But they’re kinda boring, aren’t they?”

Hey, Samira typed into her phone. Thinking about you because I picked up some fancy mushrooms at the market. I want to try risotto. Wish you were here with—

That didn’t feel right. She backspaced. Tried again.

Wish you were home with me.

She added the kiss-blowing emoji, then went back to her treat, her pounding heart flying wild and free.