She wasn’t planning a celebration. She was setting a stage.

I poured my heart into the baby shower. Picking colors. Ribbons. A gender reveal surprise. Maybe—just maybe—this would change something.

I got home early that day. The front door creaked. I heard voices.

Gloria. Aiden.

“How could you let this happen?” she snapped. “You let her get pregnant!”

“I didn’t plan it,” he muttered. “I had a vasectomy.”

“What do we do now? She’ll milk this.”

“I wanted to leave her. You know that.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because she got pregnant. People would talk. Veronica would lose it. I needed time.”

That name hit me like a slap.

Veronica.

“You can’t let her find out,” Aiden whispered. “She’s perfect. No kids. She even helped with your surgery last year.”

“She’s classy, ambitious,” Gloria spat. “Unlike her. We need to push Lynn out. Pressure her. Boy or girl—she’ll crack.”

Then Aiden: “I should’ve left her long ago.”

I don’t remember how I got to the car. Just the cake box trembling on my lap. My body numb.

But I had one thing left.

Time.

And a plan.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg. I didn’t shrink anymore.

If they wanted me gone—I’d leave. But not broken.

I finished the shower prep like it was a sacred ritual. The pastel colors. The cake. The smiles. It wasn’t a celebration anymore.

It was my goodbye.

As guests arrived, I moved through the crowd, poised and composed. My baby kicked gently. As if she knew: Today is ours.

Gloria loomed, cold as ever.

“So, did you peek at the result?” she asked.

“No,” I lied. “Thought it’d be fun to find out together.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Let’s hope it’s a boy. You know how important the family name is.”

“Aiden said otherwise.”

Her face twitched.

And then—the front door opened.

Her.

Veronica.