“She’s always been thin,” I said weakly. “She’s not drinking alcohol because of doctor’s orders, not morning sickness.”
“Have you ever heard her mention morning sickness? Food aversions? Back pain?”
I hadn’t. Colette’s pregnancy had been, by her own account, practically magical. No symptoms, no complaints.
“And that nursery,” Bennett continued. “Everything still in packaging. Nothing assembled. Almost like it’s for show.”
“Stop.” I covered my ears childishly. “Just stop.”
He fell silent, waiting. Slowly, unwillingly, I let myself consider his observations. The careful way Colette positioned herself in photos. How she never seemed to need bathroom breaks despite supposedly carrying a seven-month fetus pressing on her bladder. The way she changed the subject whenever I asked specific questions about her prenatal care.
“Why?” I whispered, dropping my hands. “Why would anyone do this?”
“I don’t know,” Bennett admitted. “Attention? Money? That shower wasn’t cheap, and she said most things were donated. What does that even mean?”
The extravagance of the event replayed in my mind: the professional catering, the designer decorations, the expensive gifts. Colette’s nonprofit work focused on maternal health in underserved communities. Could there be a connection?
“I need to know for sure,” I said finally.
Bennett nodded, putting the car back in drive. “So do I.”
As we pulled back onto the highway, doubt crept in like a fog, obscuring the certainties I’d built my life around. I’d known Colette longer than anyone outside my family. We’d shared everything: first periods, first kisses, college anxieties, wedding jitters. She was the sister I never had. But there had always been something performative about Colette, something that needed an audience. In high school, her heartbreaks were always public. Her achievements always broadcast. Even her proposal from Alaric had been elaborately staged for maximum social media impact.
“I keep thinking about what her mother said,” Bennett mused, breaking into my thoughts. “A blessing after long silence. What silence? Colette’s never mentioned fertility issues.”
“No,” I agreed. “She hasn’t.”
My phone buzzed with a text from Colette: Miss you already! Lunch Tuesday? Just us girls. So much to tell you.
I stared at the message, seeing it with new eyes. So much to tell me? What hadn’t she already shared about this pregnancy?
The rest of the drive passed in contemplative silence. By the time we pulled into our driveway, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
“What now?” I asked as Bennett cut the engine.
He turned to me, his face grave in the fading light. “That’s up to you. She’s your friend.”
I nodded slowly. “I need to find out the truth.”
“Whatever that is,” he agreed, “we’ll face it together.”
That night, I lay awake long after Bennett’s breathing had deepened into sleep. My mind replayed every interaction with Colette over the past seven months, searching for clues I might have missed. The excitement in her voice when she called with the news. The way she’d declined my offer to accompany her to appointments. The vague answers about due dates and doctor’s recommendations.
By morning, I had made a decision. I needed to see for myself.
The day after the shower dawned bright and clear. Bennett had an early shift at the hospital, leaving me alone with my tumultuous thoughts. I paced our kitchen, coffee growing cold in my mug, replaying his accusations in my mind. Could it be true? Could my best friend, the person I trusted most in the world besides my husband, be living such an elaborate lie?
I picked up my phone and scrolled through recent pictures of Colette. In each one, she was radiant, hands cradling her bump, smile dazzling. But looking closer, I noticed patterns. She always wore flowing dresses or oversized tops. Always stood at an angle. Always kept some distance between herself and others.
Before I could second-guess myself, I texted her: Left my shawl at your place yesterday. Okay if I swing by to grab it?
Her response came almost immediately: So sorry. Not home now. Doctor appointment in the city. Mirade is there though. She can let you in. Perfect.
Colette’s younger sister was less guarded, less polished. If anyone would slip up and reveal something, it would be Mirade. I grabbed my purse and keys, fabricating a pale blue shawl to find.
The drive to Colette’s house felt longer than usual, each mile marker a countdown to a confrontation I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Colette and Alaric lived in a renovated Victorian on the edge of town, a wedding gift from her parents that they’d spent years restoring. As I pulled into the driveway, I noticed Alaric’s car was gone too. Just Mirade’s beat-up Civic sat in the carport.
I knocked, heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to escape. Footsteps approached, and the door swung open to reveal Mirade, her hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing sweatpants and one of Colette’s old college T-shirts.
“Sarah?” Her surprise seemed genuine. “What are you doing here?”
“I left my shawl yesterday,” I explained, forcing a smile. “Colette said you’d let me in to look for it.”
“Oh.” Mirade blinked, then stepped aside. “Sure, come in. It’s probably in the living room with all the shower stuff.”
I stepped into the house, immediately struck by how different it felt from yesterday. Without the crowd and decorations, it seemed hollow, almost staged.
“Sorry about the mess,” Mirade said, gesturing to a half-eaten breakfast on the coffee table. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“No worries.” I scanned the room, pretending to look for my nonexistent shawl. “The shower was beautiful. You all must have worked so hard.”
“Mostly the event planner,” Mirade shrugged. “Colette had very specific requirements.”
“I’m sure she did.” I moved toward the dining room, where a bottle of red wine sat open on the table beside a plate with half a steak.
“Late breakfast?” I raised an eyebrow.
Mirade flushed. “Alaric’s, from last night.”
“Steak and red wine? Bit heavy for Colette these days, isn’t it?”
“Oh, she didn’t—” Mirade stopped herself, eyes widening slightly. “I mean, she had something else. Pregnancy-friendly.”
I nodded, filing away the slip. “Where is Colette today? She mentioned a doctor’s appointment.”
Mirade shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, she went to a clinic out of town. Special monitoring or something.”
Her voice wavered on the last words.
“Is everything okay with the baby?” I pressed, watching her reaction carefully.
“Fine. Everything’s fine.” The answer came too quickly. “Just routine.”
“That’s good to hear.” I wandered toward the stairs. “Mind if I check upstairs for my shawl? Maybe it ended up in the nursery somehow.”
“I’ll come with you,” Mirade said, a little too eagerly.
The nursery looked exactly as it had yesterday: pristine, untouched. Now that I was looking with new eyes, I noticed what Bennett had pointed out. None of the boxes were opened. The crib parts were still wrapped in plastic. The mattress was still in its packaging. Even the baby clothes in the dresser still had tags attached.
“It’s like a showroom,” I murmured, running my fingers along the changing table.
“Colette wants everything perfect before she opens anything,” Mirade explained. “You know how she is.”
“I thought I did,” I said softly.
As Mirade turned to check the closet for my shawl, I noticed something behind the changing table—a small journal wedged as if it had fallen and been forgotten. When Mirade wasn’t looking, I slipped it into my purse.
“Not here,” Mirade announced. “Maybe downstairs in the coat closet?”
We returned downstairs, and I made a show of checking various spots. “I should get going,” I said finally. “I probably left it in the car after all.”
“I’ll tell Colette you stopped by,” Mirade offered, walking me to the door.
“Please do.” I paused on the threshold. “Mirade, is everything really okay with Colette? She seems… different lately.”
Something flickered across the younger woman’s face. Doubt? Fear? “She’s going through a lot,” she said carefully, “but she’ll be fine. She always is.”
“If she needs anything, you’ll be the first to know,” Mirade finished, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
I was halfway to my car when I heard voices from the side of the house. Instinctively, I ducked behind a large hydrangea bush. Colette’s voice, clear and sharp, carried through the open kitchen window.
“I don’t care what he thinks. This will be over after the donation clears.”
My blood ran cold. Donation? What donation? I crept closer, trying to hear the rest of the conversation, but Colette had lowered her voice. I could make out only fragments: “not backing out now” and “too much invested.”
The sound of footsteps on gravel sent me scrambling back to my car. I slid into the driver’s seat just as Colette rounded the corner of the house, phone pressed to her ear, face set in an expression I’d never seen before—calculating, cold.
I started the engine and pulled away, heart hammering. In my rearview mirror, I saw Colette watching my car, her free hand not on her belly, but hanging loosely at her side.
Once safely down the street, I pulled over and called Bennett.
“You might be right,” I said when he answered, my voice shaking. “Something’s definitely off.”
“What happened?” His concern was palpable even through the phone.
“I went to her house, found a journal, heard her talking about a donation clearing, saying it would be over after that.”
Bennett was silent for a moment. “Did you see any medical paperwork? Anything concrete?”
“No, but Mirade was acting weird, and there was red wine and steak on the table. And the nursery, Bennett—nothing’s been opened. It’s all still in packaging.”
“Keep the journal,” he advised. “We might need it as evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” I asked, suddenly afraid of the answer.
“What exactly do you think is happening here?” Bennett’s voice was grim. “Best-case scenario, some kind of delusional episode. Worst case, fraud.”
After we hung up, I sat in my car, staring at Colette’s journal in my lap. Opening it felt like a betrayal, but not opening it felt like enabling whatever was happening. I took a deep breath and flipped to the first page.
My dearest daughter, though you’re not yet in my arms, you’re already in my heart. Each day I wait for you is a day closer to holding you. They don’t understand. They say it’s not possible, that I should accept reality, but mothers know. Mothers always know. Your room is ready. Your family is waiting. All we need now is you. With eternal love, your mother.