“Simple is such a tired word, don’t you think?” she cut me off, her tone now as sharp as a diamond glass-cutter. “My concept is much more… appropriate. By the way, I’ve invited some of Ryan’s oldest circle. Melissa will be there. You remember Melissa, don’t you? Such a darling girl. She’s been like a second daughter to me.”
The room seemed to lose oxygen. Melissa. Ryan’s ex-fiancée. The woman Patricia still treated like the “one who got away,” the gold standard against which I was perpetually measured and found wanting.
“That’s… thoughtful,” I managed to choke out.
“Of course it is. Get your sleep, Ensley. You look quite haggard on our Zoom calls lately.”
The line clicked shut. A dead, hollow dial tone filled the silence.
THE DINNER AT THE FORTRESS
One week before the scheduled “humiliation,” we drove to Patricia’s house for a mandatory Sunday dinner. The drive was a repetitive loop of manicured lawns and identical porch lights, a suburban labyrinth that always made me feel like I was being led toward an interrogation.
I wore my favorite maternity dress—a deep navy blue jersey. It was soft, it was elegant, and most importantly, I had bought it with my own hard-earned money from my job at the library. It was the only thing in my wardrobe that still made me feel like a woman instead of a vessel.
Patricia’s house smelled of lemon wax and expensive resentment. As we sat in her formal dining room, surrounded by her collection of “Legacy” china, she watched me with the clinical detachment of a scientist observing a flawed specimen.
“Blue is such a… bold choice for your condition, Ensley,” she remarked, her eyes lingering on my bump as if it were a breach of etiquette. “It emphasizes the scale of things. I’ve already picked out a dress for you to wear to the shower. A soft beige. It’s much more… diminishing.”
Ryan reached for the rolls, his eyes fixed on his plate. “Mom, she looks great in blue.”
