I never told my parents the truth about who my husband really was. In their eyes, he was simply a disappointment compared to my sister’s successful CEO husband. When I went into labor earlier than expected while my husband was overseas, the pain hi:t hard and fast.

My mother sat at the kitchen island scrolling through her phone, one leg crossed over the other, dressed for dinner in cream slacks and a silk blouse the color of champagne. A glass of sparkling water with lemon sat untouched beside her. She looked up once, took in my swollen ankles, the loose maternity dress, my windblown hair, and made the sort of expression women reserve for wrinkled linens.

“There you are,” she said. “The folder?”

I handed it to her. “You could have had a courier pick this up.”

“That would have been ridiculous when you were available.”

Not hello. Not how are you feeling.

The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus polish and whatever candle she was burning to make the room seem more expensive than it already was. Through the archway I could see my father in the den, seated in his leather chair with the newspaper spread wide, television muted, as if he were posing for a catalog called Aging Privilege.

“Hi, Dad,” I called.

He lifted one hand without looking up.

That same tightness flickered again low in my back.

I pressed a hand there and exhaled slowly.

“You look pale,” my mother said, though not with concern. “Have you been eating properly?”

“Yes.”