“Please, Elena,” Caleb had sighed through the static of the satellite phone. “Just make an appearance. Eat the dinner, take a photo, and leave early. If you don’t go, my mother will never, ever let us hear the end of it. Just keep the peace for me until I get home.”
So, I had put on the only maternity dress that still fit me—a simple, dark blue wrap dress—and driven forty minutes to Kansas City to sit in the ivory cage.
Vanessa, the bride, was glowing. She was wearing a custom, hand-beaded lace gown that likely cost more than my reliable, five-year-old sedan. She moved through the room like a reigning monarch, thriving on the attention, her high-pitched laughter cutting through the soft classical music playing in the background. She was a woman who only felt tall when she was actively making someone else feel small.
Hovering near her was Marlene, my mother-in-law. Marlene was draped in a rigid, emerald-green satin gown, her hair sprayed into an immovable helmet. She supervised the ballroom like a four-star general inspecting her troops, her eyes constantly darting around to ensure everything was a perfect reflection of the wealth and status she desperately projected.
To Vanessa and Marlene, my difficult, high-risk pregnancy wasn’t a miracle. It wasn’t the impending arrival of Caleb’s first child. To them, my swelling body and my need to sit down was an offensive, deliberate attempt to steal focus on Vanessa’s “special day.”
I had managed to survive the agonizingly long, performative wedding ceremony at the church. I had survived the forced, awkward family photos where Marlene had physically positioned me behind a large floral urn so my stomach wouldn’t “ruin the silhouette of the bridal party.” I had blended into the background, retreating to my assigned table near the kitchen doors the moment the reception began.
