That afternoon, Marcus actually smiled at me—a genuine, easy smile I hadn’t seen in months.
The evening began beautifully. My mom arrived with a pie. Marcus’ parents brought wine and their usual jokes about how quiet the house felt. Iris, his younger sister, swept Emma into a hug and ruffled Jacob’s hair. For the first time in a long time, warmth filled the room.
We toasted to good health. We laughed at Jacob’s clumsy card shuffling. Marcus poured wine, chatted easily, and even brushed my arm briefly while passing the mashed potatoes. It wasn’t much—but it was something.
Then, after dessert, everything shifted.
Marcus stood up abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He gripped the back of it as though steadying himself.
“There’s someone I’d like you all to meet,” he said, his tone oddly formal.
I looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
Before he could answer, the front door opened.
A woman stepped inside.
She looked about 30—maybe younger—with long dark hair and flawless skin. Her fitted black dress accentuated her figure, clearly chosen to be noticed. And everyone noticed—especially the rounded curve of her stomach.
She was pregnant.