laughed awkwardly then, and I had let it pass because mothers learn to swallow a great deal once their children marry.
But the baby shower was different.
A baby changes the meaning of insults.
A baby makes every room feel like a doorway to the future, and that day I had walked into Madison’s mother’s living room carrying the last part of Frank that could still reach forward.
The room was arranged like a magazine picture.
Pink and cream balloons floated over a dessert table.
Cupcakes sat in neat little rows.
Gift bags gleamed with metallic ribbon.
Someone had placed a chalkboard sign near the doorway with the baby’s nickname written in looping letters, and every woman who passed it made the same soft sound of approval.
My gift did not shine.
It was wrapped in plain cream paper because that was what I had.
I had tied it with
