The air in the Wellington Conservatory smelled of expensive lilies, buttercream frosting, and thinly veiled judgment. It was a suffocating cocktail that I hadn’t tasted in three years, yet as soon as I stepped across the marble threshold, the flavor coated the back of my throat like ash. I adjusted the silk cuffs of my blouse, a nervous tic I thought I had abandoned years ago.
The room was a sea of pastel pinks and creams, a curated shrine to fertility and motherhood. Crystal flutes chimed against laughter that sounded more like breaking glass than joy. In the center of it all sat my sister, Chloe, perched on a velvet throne, her hands resting protectively over her baby bump.
She looked radiant, the picture of the Golden Child she had always been. And hovering over her like a hawk guarding a nest was our mother, Eleanor. I stood in the entryway, uninvited but summoned.
A text message from my father—the only member of the family who still spoke to me in hushed, secret phone calls—had given me the time and location. She wants the whole family there, Elara. Just make an appearance.
For peace. Peace. In my family, peace was just a ceasefire while they reloaded their weapons.
I took a breath, steeling myself. I was thirty-two years old. I was a different woman than the one who had fled this toxic dynamic with a suitcase and a broken heart.
Or so I told myself. But as I walked further into the room, the old insecurity clawed at my ribs. “Elara?” The voice was sharp, cutting through the low hum of conversation.
I turned to see my mother approaching. She hadn’t aged a day. Her hair was the same perfect, icy blonde, her skin pulled tight, her eyes scanning me for flaws like a jeweler inspecting a diamond for cracks.
“Mother,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “The decorations are lovely.”
She stopped a foot away from me, invading my personal space without touching me. She lowered her voice, though not enough to be private.
It was a stage whisper, meant to be overheard by the nearby circle of her country club friends. “I’m surprised you came,” Eleanor said, her lips curving into a pitying smile. “I told your father it would be too painful for you.
Being around all this… life.”
She gestured vaguely at the room, at the pregnant women, the strollers, the celebration of impending birth. “I’m happy for Chloe,” I replied, my spine stiffening. “Why would it be painful?”
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