My husband, Ethan, laughed—a rich, hearty sound I hadn’t heard directed at me in months. “She’s a keeper, Mom. Beauty, brains, and a bank account that could buy a small country.”
“Oh, stop it, you naughty boy,” Isabella giggled. I could imagine her batting her eyelashes, checking her reflection in the back of a spoon. “It was nothing, darling. Truly. Pocket change. Daddy always said, ‘If you see something beautiful being wasted on the poor, buy it and rescue it.’”
I took a deep breath, braced the platters against my hip, and pushed through the swinging door.
The conversation didn’t stop. It didn’t even pause.
I walked around the table, serving the meat. Ethan sat at the head, looking handsome in his tailored suit. Isabella sat to his right, in the seat that used to be mine. She was wearing a dress that looked like it cost more than my car, dripping in jewelry that flashed aggressively in the candlelight.
My mother-in-law and father-in-law sat opposite, beaming at Isabella like she was the Second Coming.
No one looked at me. No one offered a chair. No one asked if the woman carrying two humans inside her needed water.
“Clara,” Ethan snapped, finally noticing my presence as I placed the platter near him. “You forgot the wine. The vintage Cabernet. It’s on the sidebar.”
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