ELENA'S POINT OF VIEW
Eight months pregnant. It was like carrying a tiny, wriggling time bomb, and right now, I felt more like a beached whale sprawled across the couch than a glowing mother-to-be.
The same old romantic comedy flickered on the screen, one I'd already watched three times and was inevitably drawn back into its ridiculous charm.
"Need more popcorn?" Alex asked, perched in the armchair with his laptop precariously balanced on his knee.
"Absolutely. But make it extra buttery this time!" I held out the bowl without taking my eyes off the screen, hoping for a miracle of comfort.
"You're going to turn into a popcorn kernel if you keep this up," he laughed, heading toward the kitchen.
"And your daughter needs her popcorn fix. Don't argue with a pregnant woman," I shot back, a grin fighting its way through my discomfort.
