thought maybe I could help design a reading corner for the nursery, “since children’s books are your thing.”
My fork stopped halfway to my plate.
Thomas’s hand found mine beneath the table.
I held on hard enough to hurt us both.
“That might be difficult,” he said evenly.
Sloane’s lashes fluttered. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“No one in this family ever does,” Thomas replied.
The silence sharpened.
My mother set down her glass. “This is exactly why I asked everyone to come with an open heart.”
“I came with one,” I said.
Her eyes moved to me. “Then use it.”
My father cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should have the toast.”
He lifted his glass first.
“To Sloane and Grant,” he said. “And to new life.”
Everyone drank except me. I touched the glass to my lips but swallowed nothing.
My mother noticed.
Of course she noticed.
Sloane stood next, smiling. “I just want to say how grateful I am to be surrounded by family. I know this year hasn’t been easy for everyone.”
Her eyes flickered toward me, quick as a match.
“But I think babies remind us that life goes on.”
Grant closed his eyes.
That was the second thing I noticed.
The first was his pallor. The second was the guilt that passed across his face when Sloane said babies.
My mother rose before anyone could respond.
“I have arranged something meaningful,” she announced.
My stomach dropped.
The room seemed to narrow around the white box on the sideboard.
“Celeste,” my father said cautiously, “perhaps after dessert.”
“No. Now.” She smiled at him, and he looked down.
She crossed to the sideboard, lifted the box, and brought it to the table as if presenting a cake. The gold ribbon slid loose beneath her fingers.
“I know grief can become a locked room,” she said. “And I know some of us have stayed in that room too long.”
Thomas went rigid.
“Stop,” he said.
My mother ignored him.
She lifted the lid.
Inside lay a silver frame wrapped in tissue.
At first, I thought it might be Sloane’s ultrasound, some gilded announcement meant to be passed around while everyone cooed.
Then my mother peeled back the tissue.
I saw yellow yarn.
The room tilted.
It was a photograph of Lena’s cap.
My daughter’s cap.
The one I had placed against her cheek before the nurse took her from my arms. The one I had believed was buried with her, tucked beside the blanket with the tiny embroidered sun near the edge.
My chair scraped backward.
“Where did you get that?” I whispered.
My mother held the frame in both hands. “Today we are not only celebrating Sloane’s baby,” she said. “We are helping Marin release the child she couldn’t keep.”
The room went silent.
Thomas stood so fast his chair fell behind him.
“Celeste,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “put that down.”
Sloane’s mouth opened. For once, no performance came out.
I reached for the frame.
My mother pulled it back.
“Don’t be dramatic,” she snapped. “This family has mourned long enough.”
Something in me split cleanly.
“You stole from her grave.”
Her face changed.
For the first time all afternoon, the mask slipped. Not completely. Celeste Whitaker did not collapse in public. But something
