“Claire, honey,” she cooed. “We’re having a small, intimate family dinner this Sunday to formally welcome little Matthew home. At Valerie’s apartment. Derek said he might stop by if his workload allows.”
I closed my eyes. My mother was actively coordinating my husband’s attendance at my sister’s apartment, inviting me like a clueless spectator.
“Please, Claire,” my mother added, “don’t come with one of your cold faces. Valerie needs absolute peace right now.”
Valerie needed peace. Valerie needed support.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
Sunday arrived perfectly bright. Derek performed his routine flawlessly, pretending to receive a frantic work call at noon. He kissed my forehead. “I’m so sorry I can’t go with you, babe. Tell them I’m stuck dealing with the zoning board.”
“Of course,” I smiled.
He left. I walked over to the window, watched his car pull away, and picked up my phone.
“Lauren,” I said. “It’s time.”
“We’re downstairs,” she replied.
I picked up a gift bag of diapers. The doorbell rang. I opened it to find Lauren in a razor-sharp charcoal suit, her forensic accountant Paige holding a briefcase, and a licensed notary public.
We were going to a baby shower.
Valerie’s Bellevue apartment looked expensive in the exact way my bank statements had warned me it would. A custom walnut crib. A cloud-like beige sofa. Fresh, overpriced peonies.
My mother opened the door, wearing heavy perfume and a proud smile. “Claire. You made it.”
Valerie sat regally on the couch, Matthew nestled in her arms. She looked beautiful and exhausted, glowing in the way people glow when protected from the consequences of their choices.
Then, Derek walked out of the kitchen, holding two glasses of iced water.
He froze. The glasses trembled in his hands. Valerie’s face drained of color.
I let the suffocating silence stretch. Then, I smiled.
“I thought you were stuck at work, Derek.”
He recovered first. “Claire… I stopped by quickly. Your mom called and said Valerie needed help moving a dresser.”
