After years of waiting and hoping, God finally answered my prayers. I stood in a backyard filled with flowers, family, and the baby I’d almost stopped believing in. Then my mother-in-law raised her glass, insulted me at my own baby shower, and my mother reached for one final envelope.
The baby kicked while my mother was pinning tiny white roses to the archway. I pressed both hands to my stomach and laughed.
“Mom, come here.”
Mom dropped the ribbon between her teeth and hurried across the grass.
My mother-in-law insulted me at my own baby shower.
“Again?” she beamed.
“Right here.”
She placed her palm against the side of my belly. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then a small heel, or maybe an elbow, pushed back against her hand.
My mother made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“There you are,” she whispered.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
She had said those same words at our first ultrasound.
After three years of appointments and treatments, they still felt borrowed from somebody else’s life.
Lucas came through the back door carrying a tray of lemonade glasses. He saw our faces and set the tray down before one of us could warn him.
“Did I miss it?”
“You always miss it,” I said.
“Did I miss it?”
He crouched in front of me and rested his cheek against my dress.
“Come on, little one. Your father is asking nicely.”
The baby stayed still.
Mom laughed and returned to the flowers.
Lucas looked up at me. “Already taking after your mother.”
“My mother is decorating our entire yard for free.”
“Come on, little one. Your father is asking nicely.”
“Exactly. Strong opinions and excellent project management.”
I ran my fingers through his hair.
He kissed my stomach, then stood and moved the chair behind me into the shade without being asked.
That was Lucas.
He rarely announced that he loved me. He filled my water bottle, carried crackers for my nausea, and rubbed my swollen ankles.
He rarely announced that he loved me.
When I wondered whether I still looked like myself, he said, “You look like the woman I love carrying the child we prayed for.”
***
That morning, surrounded by peonies, lanterns, and tiny seed packets tied with cream ribbon, I believed him completely.
Our backyard had never looked so beautiful.
Mom had spent weeks planning every detail.
“You look like the woman I love carrying the child we prayed for.”
White roses climbed a wooden arch near the patio. Pale pink flowers filled mismatched glass jars she had collected from thrift stores. Each table held a packet of wildflower seeds stamped with the words, “Love makes beautiful things grow.”
She had even covered the old fence with strands of greenery.
“You know the fence is still brown behind there,” I told her.
“Today it isn’t!” she said.
Guests began arriving just after noon.
“Love makes beautiful things grow.”
My cousins carried gifts through the gate while children chased bubbles between the chairs.
For once, nobody asked how many treatments it had taken.
Nobody offered fertility advice from a woman they knew at church.
Nobody tilted their head and said, “See? It happened when you stopped worrying.”
For once, nobody asked how many treatments it had taken.
They hugged me.
They touched my stomach only after asking.
And they celebrated the baby without turning the road here into a public discussion.
I let myself enjoy every minute.
Then Brenda arrived. Lucas saw her first.
His hand moved to the small of my back before his mother had even crossed the lawn.
I let myself enjoy every minute.
She wore a fitted suit, cream heels, and a hat with a bow large enough to announce itself separately.
Her gaze traveled from the flowers to the tables to my dress.
“Midge certainly went all out.”
My mother adjusted a pitcher of lemonade.
“We had something worth celebrating.”
Brenda smiled at her, then turned to me.
“That dress is brave.”
“Midge certainly went all out.”
I looked down at the soft fabric.
“Brave?”
“The print. Large flowers can be risky when someone is already carrying extra volume.”
Lucas’s fingers pressed lightly against my back.
“Mom.”
“What?” Brenda widened her eyes. “Amy knows I always tell the truth.”
“The print. Large flowers can be risky when someone is already carrying extra volume.”
Mom carried the pitcher past us.
“No,” she said pleasantly. “You always tell your opinion.”
Brenda’s smile held, static and brittle.
