They made their way through the tables, stopping to greet people loudly, drawing attention to themselves. Olivia smiled sweetly, her hand never leaving her stomach, accepting congratulations as if the night were about her. I focused on my salmon, hoping to stay invisible. Daniel’s sister Monica leaned closer and whispered that they were coming this way. I nodded, keeping my gaze down, silently wishing Daniel would come back inside.
My mother reached our table first. She wore a burgundy dress and matching heels with narrow pointed toes and high stilettos that clicked sharply against the floor. Her makeup was flawless, her hair styled into perfect waves, every detail carefully controlled. She looked at me like she always did, as if my presence were an inconvenience she had to tolerate. “Well, there you are,” she said, her tone implying I’d been avoiding her.
I offered a small smile and explained that we were at our assigned table, but she ignored me, scanning the empty chairs around us. Many guests were still mingling or dancing, leaving seats open. My father stepped closer, his expression stern and unreadable. Olivia hovered just behind them, one hand protectively on her stomach. “Your sister needs somewhere to sit,” my mother announced, as if issuing an order.
I shifted slightly in my chair, my lower back aching under the strain. I gestured to the empty seats. There are plenty of chairs right here, I said, keeping my voice calm. She can take any of them. My mother’s eyes narrowed, the corners of her mouth tightening. “She needs your seat,” she replied. “It has the best position at the table.”
The statement made no sense. Every chair was identical. But logic had never mattered where my mother was concerned. Challenging her had never ended well, and I felt old instincts urging me to comply. Still, I placed a hand on my belly and spoke quietly. I’m eight months pregnant. Getting up and down is really difficult right now.
