At my sister’s baby shower, I was 9 months pregnant.
When we reached the event, my parents told me, “Wait, your sister’s not here.” I was getting tired from standing up. So, I pleaded, “Please let me sit somewhere.” But they refused and said, “No, we are still waiting for your sister.” As soon as she reached, they made her sit down while I could barely stand. My mother looked at me, disgusted, and said, “Get out. You’re disrupting the environment.” She then pushed me hard. I fell, which made my belly hit the curb, and I went into labor, screaming in pain. But then my husband struck back, and my mom’s face turned pale with fear.
My name is Lauren Mitchell, and I grew up in Portland, Oregon, as the oldest of two daughters. My sister Hannah is 5 years younger than me. Our parents, Patricia and Robert Mitchell, owned a successful chain of boutique hotels across the Pacific Northwest. Money was never an issue in our household. Love and equality, however, were a different story entirely.
Hannah was born with a congenital heart condition that required surgeries throughout her childhood. My parents poured everything into her recovery, which I understood. What I didn’t understand was why that attention never shifted back, even after she was declared completely healthy at age 12. By then, the pattern had been set.
Hannah was the precious one, the miracle child, the golden daughter who could do no wrong. I learned early to be invisible. While Hannah received a new car for her 16th birthday, I was told that my part-time job at a bookstore would teach me responsibility. When she struggled with algebra, my parents hired an expensive tutor. When I needed help with calculus, my father handed me a library card and told me to figure it out. Hannah went to the University of Southern California on my parents’ dime. I went to Portland State on scholarships and student loans.
The inequality didn’t make me bitter. Exactly. It made me independent. I graduated with honors in graphic design, landed a job at a marketing firm, and met Marcus Chen at a professional networking event. He was a software developer with kind eyes and a laugh that made my chest warm. We dated for 2 years before he proposed on a hiking trail overlooking the Columbia River Gorge. My parents attended our wedding, but they left early. Hannah had a stomachache. She was 22 years old.
Marcus and I built a beautiful life together. We bought a modest house in a neighborhood with good schools, planning for the future. When I got pregnant 2 years into our marriage, we were thrilled. I called my mother immediately, expecting at least some semblance of enthusiasm. That’s nice, dear.
Patricia said, “Hannah just got engaged, though.
Can you believe it?” to Drew Sutton, the investment banker.
His family owns half of Lake Asiggo. 3 months into my pregnancy, Hannah announced she was also expecting. Suddenly, my mother had time for baby conversations, except every conversation was about Hannah’s pregnancy. Hannah’s morning sickness was so much worse than normal. Hannah’s cravings were so specific. Hannah needed custom prenatal vitamins shipped from Sweden.
I worked until I was 7 months pregnant, saving money for maternity leave. Hannah quit her job as a social media coordinator immediately, claiming stress. My parents supported her financially, of course. Drew made good money, but apparently not enough to satisfy Hannah’s sudden need for a designer nursery that cost more than my annual salary. Marcus noticed the disparity more than I did, probably because he hadn’t grown up with it.
After a particularly painful family dinner where Patricia showed us 12 different shade options for Hannah’s nursery walls while barely acknowledging my existence, Marcus held my hand in the car.
“You don’t have to keep subjecting yourself to this,” he said quietly.
They’re my family, I replied, rubbing my swollen belly. They’ll be this baby’s grandparents.
Will they though? Marcus asked.
Or will they just be Hannah’s baby’s grandparents? I didn’t have an answer. The baby shower invitation came when I was 8 and 1/2 months pregnant. Hannah was 6 months along, and Patricia had planned an elaborate garden party at their estate. The invitation was addressed only to me, no plus-one for Marcus. When I called to ask if he could attend, my mother sighed dramatically.
Lauren, this is Hannah’s day. We want to keep it intimate. Just family.
Marcus is family. I said, “You know what I mean.
I should have declined right then.” Marcus certainly thought I should, but some small, pathetic part of me hoped that seeing me this pregnant, this vulnerable, might trigger some maternal instinct in Patricia. Maybe she’d realize she was about to have two grandchildren. maybe things would finally balance out. I was so stupidly hopeful.
The baby shower was scheduled for a Saturday in June. I was 37 weeks pregnant, and my doctor had cleared me for the outing with strict instructions to stay hydrated and sit frequently. My due date was 3 weeks away, and I felt like I was carrying a bowling ball between my hips. Walking was uncomfortable. Standing for more than 10 minutes made my back scream.
