The Wellington Conservatory smelled like expensive lilies, buttercream frosting, and thinly veiled judgment. It was a suffocating combination I hadn’t experienced in three years, yet the moment I stepped across the marble threshold, the scent coated the back of my throat like ash. I adjusted the silk cuffs of my blouse—a nervous habit I’d thought I’d 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 genuine joy. In the center of it all sat my sister Chloe, perched on a velvet throne, hands resting protectively over her seven-month baby bump.
She looked radiant, the picture of the golden child she’d always been. And hovering over her like a hawk guarding its nest was our mother, Eleanor. I stood in the entryway, technically uninvited but summoned nonetheless.
A text message from my father—the only family member 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’d fled this toxic dynamic with a suitcase and a broken heart three years ago.
Or so I told myself. But as I walked further into the room, the old insecurity clawed at my ribs like it had been waiting patiently for my return. “Elara?” The voice was sharp, cutting through the low hum of conversation like a scalpel.
I turned to see my mother approaching. She hadn’t aged a day—same perfect icy blonde hair, same skin pulled tight from procedures she’d never admit to, same eyes that scanned me for flaws like a jeweler inspecting a diamond for imperfections. “Mother,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
“The decorations are lovely.”
She stopped a foot away, invading my personal space without actually touching me. She lowered her voice, though not enough to be truly private. It was a stage whisper, meant to be overheard by the nearby circle of country club friends.
“I’m surprised you came,” Eleanor said, her lips curving into what someone who didn’t know her might mistake for a sympathetic smile. “I told your father it would be too painful for you. Being around all this… life.”
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