Chapter 4
Helen arrived the next afternoon with a black suitcase, a wool coat, and the expression of a woman prepared to go to war before dinner.
I opened the door, and she pulled me into a hug so firm I felt my bones line up again.
“You’re thinner,” she said into my hair.
“Hello to you, too.”
“I said what I said.”
Behind her, the street smelled like rain on pavement. A cyclist shouted at a delivery truck. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked with the confidence of a homeowner.
Daniel took her suitcase. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course I came.” Helen walked into our house like she had keys to every room, which emotionally she did. “Now show me the receipt.”
I had placed it in a plastic sleeve on the dining table, because Daniel had insisted we treat it like evidence. That word made me feel ridiculous and terrified.
Helen put on reading glasses and studied both sides.
“Herbal uterine support,” she read. “Conveniently vague.”
“It could mean anything,” I said.
“It could.” She looked at me over her glasses. “And a wolf could be a dog with poor manners. We still don’t invite it to dinner.”
Daniel paced near the window. “I want Liz to skip the shower.”
“I know,” I said.
“Then skip it.”
“I can’t.”
The words came out too fast.
Helen took off her glasses. “Tell me why.”
Because my mother would punish me with silence. Because my father would tell Daniel I was unstable. Because Rebecca would cry into her mocktail and make herself the victim. Because a part of me still wanted them to look up, see my pain, and finally understand.
I didn’t say any of that.
“I want to know what she’s planning,” I said.
Daniel stopped pacing. “That’s not a good enough reason.”
“It is to me.”
Helen leaned back in her chair. “Then we go with you.”
“No, Helen—”
“Yes. Daniel on one side, me on the other. You do not accept drinks from anyone. You do not go anywhere alone with your mother or sister. You leave the second you want to leave.”
I nodded, though my mouth had gone dry.
That night, I barely slept.
I dreamed I was back in my childhood bedroom at the Harrison house, only the walls were covered with nursery wallpaper. Rebecca stood by the door holding a silver tray. On it sat a teacup filled with black water.
“Drink,” she said.
When I refused, my mother appeared behind me and began brushing my hair, hard enough to scrape my scalp.
“Don’t be difficult,” she whispered.
I woke before dawn with my heart slamming and Daniel’s hand on my shoulder.
“You were saying no,” he murmured.
I stared at the ceiling. “I don’t remember.”
That was a lie.
At nine, I showered under water so hot it left my skin pink. I chose a pale blue dress because my mother had told me not to wear black and because I hated myself a little for obeying. The fabric was soft and expensive, a wrap dress Daniel had bought me after my magazine cover came out. Back then, Rebecca had looked at the photo spread and said, “They must have airbrushed your jawline.”
In the mirror, I practiced a calm face.
It didn’t hold.
By noon, we were in the car. Helen sat in the back seat, quiet but alert, her purse on her lap like it contained a legal pad, pepper spray, and possibly a brick.
The Golden Garden looked beautiful in daylight. Ivy clung to the brick facade. Brass lanterns framed the entrance. Inside, the marble foyer reflected the chandelier in fractured gold. I had designed the space to feel like stepping into an old Boston secret.
Today it felt like stepping into a trap.
Upstairs, the banquet hall had been transformed into a pastel dream. Pink and blue balloons arched over the gift table. White roses spilled from crystal vases. Tiny sugar cookies shaped like onesies sat on silver trays. The air smelled of buttercream, champagne, and lilies.
Rebecca stood near the center wearing a lavender maternity dress, one hand resting delicately over her still-flat belly. Michael, her husband, stood beside her in a navy suit. His smile looked strained.
When he saw me, he came over immediately.
“Elizabeth,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”
It was such a simple question. Such a rare one.
“I’m here,” I said.
His eyes searched mine. “That’s not what I asked.”
Before I could answer, Rebecca appeared at his shoulder.
“Michael,” she said sweetly, “don’t monopolize my sister.”
His face tightened.
My mother crossed the room, heels clicking. She kissed the air beside my cheek.
“There you are.” Her eyes moved over my dress. “Blue. Interesting choice.”
“Hello, Mom.”
“And Helen.” Her smile thinned. “What a surprise.”
Helen smiled back. “I’m full of them.”
My father arrived with a glass of sparkling water and the benevolent expression he used for family photos.
“Let’s keep today joyful,” he said, looking only at me.
I felt Daniel’s hand brush mine.
For an hour, I survived.
I arranged a fallen flower, accepted compliments from distant cousins, avoided drinks, avoided my mother’s eyes. Rebecca opened gifts and performed delight over each tiny blanket and silver rattle. People laughed. Cameras flashed. A baby-themed playlist tinkled through hidden speakers.
Then Nicole dimmed the lights.
A screen lowered at the front of the room.
Rebecca picked up the microphone.
My pulse went wild.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said, her voice bright as a knife. “Today is about new beginnings. But before we celebrate my baby, I want to honor someone very special.”
Her eyes found mine.
Behind her, the first slide appeared.
It was a photo of me from last spring, smiling with one hand on my barely visible pregnant belly.
The room made a soft, collective sound.
May you like
And under the photo, in curling pink letters, were the words:
Better luck next time, Auntie Liz.
