Claire was pregnant with my husband Daniel’s child. The words felt unreal, like dialogue from a poorly written drama, yet the small swell beneath Claire’s floral dress made it horrifyingly concrete. Daniel was not there to face me; he never was when accountability was required. Margaret continued speaking, explaining that Claire would be staying in our home and that it was only right for me to take care of her. She reminded me, pointedly, that three years of marriage had passed without me producing a child.
She knew about my infertility treatments, my miscarriages, the nights I cried quietly so Daniel wouldn’t hear. To her, my pain was a failure, and this situation was her correction. I felt shame and fury coil together in my chest, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing me break. I smiled, thin and controlled, and told Claire to make herself at home. Margaret mistook my restraint for submission and escorted the girl upstairs, leaving me alone with the ticking clock and the knowledge that my marriage, as I knew it, had just been publicly dismantled in my own living room.
