Chapter 1 - The Rented Hall and the Second-Class Daughter
The rented reception hall smelled faintly of fresh upholstery, lemon wax, and expensive white lilies. At eight months pregnant, I could judge a venue’s hospitality by its chairs in about three seconds flat, and the ones chosen for Bianca’s engagement party offered zero mercy to anyone whose baby had decided her ribs were a convenient footrest. I found a sturdy seat near the back wall while my husband, Theo, brought me a glass of ice water and whispered with a grin whether I wanted him to sneak into the coatroom and steal an extra cushion.
There were roughly eighty guests milling about, most of them chattering excitedly while awaiting the grand entrance of my younger sister and her arrogant fiancé, Greg. Bianca looked radiant in her ivory silk cocktail dress, and honestly, I was happy for her. I had been married to Theo for four years, and after a long, agonizing struggle with fertility treatments, we were finally expecting our first child. I knew firsthand how intoxicating it felt when a future you had spent years picturing finally felt close enough to touch.
I had spent my entire morning hunting down a dress that fit my swollen frame and shoes that promised not to punish my ankles before the first toast. Theo had told me the flats looked comfortable; I reminded him that “comfortable” was a generous word for orthopedic torture. We had quietly agreed to slip away early if my back started screaming, but decided we would stay at least long enough for Bianca to open her gifts so nobody could accuse me of being distant.
Our mother, Renata, had planned every minute of the evening down to the exact order of the speeches. When she drifted past our table, she paused to aggressively straighten a rhinestone ribbon on the floral centerpiece, glanced down at me, and asked whether I was comfortable without waiting for an answer. That was Mom at her finest: she only noticed things that looked good in a photograph. I shifted my weight, told her the room looked lovely, and watched her glide back toward the front.
Ever since our father passed away three years ago, Mom had appointed herself the undisputed matriarch who decided when the family gathered and what each occasion signified. I kept showing up to these events even though I knew I’d leave with another barbed comment lodged in my brain. Bianca was her golden child, and Theo always understood that I could be deeply hurt by our mother while still foolishly hoping the next dinner might feel different.
Bianca had always been favored, though nobody in our family dared say it aloud. If Bianca suffered a setback, Mom mobilized heaven and earth to fix it; if I faced a hardship, Mom wanted to know what mistake I had made to cause it. For years, I had trained myself to look untroubled at family gatherings because needing nothing brought fewer lectures. Theo noticed, of course. He would squeeze my hand under the mahogany table whenever Mom introduced Bianca’s latest minor achievement while air-brushing mine out of existence.
I had foolishly hoped this pregnancy might soften Mom’s attitude toward me. She asked standard questions when she called, and occasionally remembered my doctor appointments. Yet, she always managed to steer every conversation back to what Bianca needed for her wedding. I hadn't expected the party to revolve around me—I simply wanted to celebrate my sister without being reminded of my permanent place near the bottom of the family totem pole.
Theo stayed glued to my side not because I needed a bodyguard, but because he knew my exhaustion ran bone-deep. That night, as the appetizers were cleared away, he asked if I wanted to skip dessert and head home. I shook my head, saying I wanted to stay for the gift ceremony. Bianca would notice if I vanished early, and I didn't want to give her a reason to play the victim.
When Bianca and Greg finally joined Mom near the gift table, the crowded room quieted down into a respectful hush. Mom beamed, picked up a sleek set of luxury car keys, and dangled them high so every eye in the room could see.
“This is our special gift to the real bride,” Mom announced, her voice ringing out clearly over the microphone as she beamed proudly at Bianca.
May you like
I felt Theo’s palm settle firmly and protectively on the back of my chair.
Mom tossed the keys through the air. Greg caught them cleanly, chuckled, and said into the open mic, “Thanks, Renata! You can take a public bus or a cab to your checkups, Naomi. This car is actually meant for someone who matters.”
