The Hateful Heavy Heart | 18+

20 - The Family

Positive. The result was positive.

I wasn't surprised by the test. Given the changes I had been noticing with my body, I knew the result. My mother knew, too, but I refused to confirm her suspicions until I was ready to. I was able to tell Ruggiero that I had food poisoning last month when I had thrown up, but I wondered if he knew, too. I didn't think he did. He didn't seem to.

The thought of telling him made me want to throw up, though. I knew that Ruggiero loved me—I still had my doubts, but I was reassured through his actions; he was consistent—but I didn't know about this. Pushing thirty like he was, I doubted that he'd be scared off, but what if he wasn't ready? Or what if he loved me, but couldn't see me as the mother of his children? What if he didn't even believe I was capable?

I was worried. Moreover, I was the last person someone would think to get pregnant. Besides, I didn't really fit the image of a typical mother. I wasn't the loving, intensely sympathetic person most mothers were. Hell, it was me. I was the mother in question; could I even do it?

I was quiet when Ruggiero finally came by after work midday. The night before, when I had taken the test, I kept the moment from him when he'd called to check on me and assured him that I was okay to be alone for the night. I was afraid to face him, and that hadn't changed, even a day later. He'd walked in quietly, carrying a covered foil pan, and headed toward the kitchen. I could hear water running and the rustling of the foil.

He walked out of the kitchen a few moments after the noise ceased. With both hands, he held a plate full of food; a piece of fried catfish and portions of green beans, mac, and cheese—stabbed into it was a plastic fork—and slices of bread decorated the plastic plate. "For you, dolcezza, I thought you might be hungry," he remarks. With a small smile, I accepted the food. "I will be right back. I'm a bit hungry myself."

"Okay," I said, softly. "Thank you." I started with my green beans, as they looked like a good starter. I felt like it was one of the least detrimental things to eat should I start feeling sick.

As promised, Ruggiero returned to my front room with a plate of food for himself and sat down next to me. "There was a food truck outside of work," he started to explain, "and the gentlemen selling it were so kind, two friendly Black men saying they had the best fried catfish in the city. I haven't tried much catfish here, but I wanted to try it." With that, he picked up a slice of bread from his plate and put his fish on it before folding the slice in half. "When I first moved here, Lucky told me that you're meant to eat it like a little sandwich." He took a bite.

"Well, what do you think?" I asked. I used my fingers to tear off a small piece of the fish. Even in that small bite, I could see what those men were talking about; it was seasoned just right and was more than savory. Covering my mouth with my hand as I chewed, I added, "I think they may be right." 

"Maybe so. I don't know. I think this is only the second time I've eaten fried catfish not only here but ever. It is very good, though."

We fell into a comfortable silence as we ate our food. That was something nice about Ruggiero; it never bothered him if I couldn't always do well at conversing. He allowed me those moments of silence, those moments to myself. It made me feel like a real human, not being expected to always engage.

However, once our plates were empty, I knew that I needed to.

I walked both our plates to the kitchen. I toyed with the idea of just leaving them in the sink, but I rinsed them before stacking them. I was giving myself more time, trying to stall the conversation that had to come next. I poured us both glasses of water and tried to extend their low temperatures with ice cubes.