She decided in April, on the Saturday of the painting, while she was sitting against the wall watching the room become what it was going to be.
She had been thinking about it since January — since the night Nana had told them and she had asked the question that had been sitting with her since she understood what pregnant meant in the specific context of this household and this moment. Is it going to know us, properly, from the beginning.
The answer had been yes.
Which meant someone had to introduce them.
She thought about this for the rest of April with the focused patience she brought to important problems — not rushing toward the first idea, which was usually not the right idea, but letting the thinking complete itself before moving to the doing.
The thinking completed itself on a Tuesday morning in May, while she was eating breakfast.
She put down her chopsticks.
"I know what I'm making," she said.
The table turned to her.
