We played all the traditional baby-shower games—measuring Sarah’s belly with string, guessing the baby’s birth date, and that horrible melted-chocolate-bar-in-diaper game. I won the belly-measuring contest, which seemed to irritate Sarah more than it should have. Throughout it all, she kept shooting these strange looks my way, like she was waiting for something.
After the gifts were opened—Sarah cooing over each onesie and baby gadget with theatrical enthusiasm—she reached my presents. She held up the blanket, running her fingers over the intricate pattern. Then she clinked her glass for attention. The room fell silent, and my heart started racing for no reason I could name. The air felt suddenly thick, hard to breathe.
“I want to thank everyone for coming today,” she began, one hand resting on her swollen belly. “But there’s something else I need to share. I think it’s time everyone knew who the father of my baby is.”
My heart started pounding. Sarah’s eyes locked onto mine, and in that moment I knew. I knew before the words left her mouth—but that didn’t lessen the impact.