By the Thursday before the shower, I was at my father’s house every single night after work. My own laundry sat in sad piles at home, my fridge was nearly empty, and even my cat sulked at me when I finally stumbled through the door.
Meanwhile, Melinda stretched herself out on the couch with her phone in hand, scrolling through Instagram as if she were supervising a staff of servants. One hand rubbed her belly in slow circles, and she wore the satisfied expression of a queen surrounded by attendants.
“Iron the tablecloths, Lola,” she ordered casually, pointing to the basket of linen.
I froze in place, clutching my own sweater tightly.
“Melinda,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “This is starting to feel less like helping and more like working.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, smirking. “You don’t have a husband or kids, Lola. It’s not like you have anything better to do.”
Her words cut deeper than I expected. I curled my fingers into tight fists. For a moment, I imagined walking out and leaving her to handle her wrinkled linens and her smug little smirk.
But then I thought of my dad, of how proud he was of the baby coming, and I forced myself to stay.
The night before the baby shower, my phone buzzed while I was on a break from my lesson planning.
“Can you come over?” Melinda asked the moment I picked up. “I need someone to wash all the glassware before tomorrow afternoon.”
I let out a laugh, thinking she was joking.
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
“Of course, I’m serious,” she said sternly. “There are at least 40 glasses. I can’t do that by myself, Lola. Don’t be ridiculous.”
By the end of the prep, I had stayed up past midnight three nights in a row, assembling centerpieces, ironing tablecloths until my arms ached, and prepping trays of food.
I was practically running on fumes. And through it all, Melinda had not lifted a single finger.
The big day arrived, and by noon the house was already buzzing. Guests streamed in — family friends, cousins I hadn’t seen in months, and even some of Melinda’s old high school friends dressed like they were headed to a fashion show.
The backyard was perfect with fairy lights for when the sun went down, pastel balloons, and ribbons twisting in the breeze. It looked like something plucked straight from Pinterest, staged and polished in every detail.
I had to admit that it was beautiful. And of course, it was. I had created it all.
People gasped when they stepped outside.
“Wow! This is stunning,” one of Melinda’s friends whispered to another. “It looks like a magazine spread. It must have cost a fortune.”
Melinda stood at the center of it all, one hand resting gently on her belly.
“Oh, thank you!” she gushed. “I worked so hard making this day special for us and our little one.”
I nearly choked on the pink lemonade I was sipping. I wanted to shout that she didn’t lift a single finger, but instead I tightened my grip on the pitcher and forced myself to keep moving.
For hours, I floated around like hired help. I refilled trays, fetched drinks, and wiped up spills before anyone could complain. At one point, a guest from Melinda’s side stopped me near the buffet.
“Excuse me,” she asked kindly. “Are you with the caterer? Could I get another plate of those delicious little sliders?”
“I’m not the caterer,” I said, smiling thinly, though the words tasted thick and bitter in my mouth.
By the time the gift opening began, my feet ached and my head throbbed. I slid into a chair at the edge of the room with a paper plate balanced on my knees, too tired to taste the food I’d made.
Melinda tore into gift after gift with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning. She held up a designer diaper bag to applause, squealed over a $1,000 stroller from my aunt, and grinned at a high-tech baby monitor that probably cost more than my rent.
Then she reached for my gift bag.
I straightened in my chair, my heart thumping. I had spent weeks putting it together: handmade burp cloths I’d sewn myself after long days at work. I’d included baby lotion, wipes, diapers, pastel pacifiers, and a gift card tucked neatly into the bag.
Look, it wasn’t flashy — I was a primary school teacher, and as much as I loved my job, it covered the bare minimum.
She lifted the basket, held it up for everyone to see, and let out a laugh that rang hollow.
“Well, this is kind of basic, don’t you think, Lola?” she said loud and clear. “The registry was right there! It was linked for everyone… especially those who are clueless when it comes to gifts. I guess some people don’t really understand what a baby needs.”
Awkward chuckles rippled through the crowd. My face flamed. I stared down at my plate, willing myself invisible, wishing the ground would open and swallow me whole.
Then I heard it: a sharp, deliberate throat-clearing that cut through the uncomfortable silence like a bell.