Instead, I did what mothers do when pain hits harder than dignity can bear.
I pushed open the front door, walked up to the entrance, and rang the doorbell with the folder still in my hand.
Vanessa opened first.
To her credit, she recovered quickly. That was one of her most dangerous qualities. Even with the fake belly still visible on the sofa behind her, she managed to compose her face in an expression somewhere between concern and confusion.
“Margaret…”
I shoved the gift bags into his arms so hard that he almost dropped them.
“Where?” I said, my voice trembling, “is my grandson?”
Her expression wavered.
Just a second, but I saw it. Calculation. He was measuring how much I had heard.
Ethan appeared behind her. “Mom, come inside.”
I let out a dry, broken laugh. “So they can put on another show for me?”
He tried to grab my elbow. I moved away.
“No,” I said. “Don’t touch me.”
Vanessa slowly placed the bags on the floor by the door. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
I looked past her at the silicone belly lying on the sofa like a discarded accessory. “That sentence should be illegal.”
Ethan closed the door behind me as I entered, perhaps so the neighbors wouldn’t hear, perhaps because betrayal always prefers privacy. The living room smelled of vanilla candles and fresh paint from the nursery I’d helped decorate. Pale green walls. A crib in the corner. Folded blankets. A mobile of tiny clouds hanging over nothing.
All false.
All assembled.
All built with my money, my hope, my pain, and my trust.
I turned to Ethan. “Tell me I misunderstood.”
