The following Saturday, I arrived at my parents’ house carrying two carefully wrapped packages—a high-end baby monitor and a handmade blanket. Despite our differences, this was my future niece or nephew. The place looked like a pastel explosion had hit it—pink and blue balloons everywhere, streamers hanging from every surface, and a towering diaper-cake centerpiece. Trust Sarah to turn this into an event. She’d invited what looked like half the town: Aunt Margaret was there with her daughters, Mom’s bridge-club friends occupied the sofa, and Sarah’s old college roommates clustered around the punch bowl, giggling over some shared memory.
“Time for games!” Sarah announced, wading through the crowd in a flowing maternity dress that probably cost more than my monthly rent. She was glowing, but there was something predatory in her smile that made me uneasy. Her eyes kept finding mine across the room, holding my gaze a beat too long.