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Tiffany saw us approaching. She wore a tight, spotless white dress that hugged a picture-perfect eight-month bump. She placed a delicate hand on her belly as if rehearsing for a photo shoot.
“Sarah!” Tiffany sang out. Her voice was high-pitched and fluttery, like wind chimes blowing in a storm. “Oh my god, you really came.
The surrounding conversations softened. Guests leaned in slightly, pretending not to stare while absolutely staring. “Hello, Tiffany,” I replied, calm and controlled.
I handed her the gift bag. Inside was a cashmere blanket—expensive, neutral, emotionless. “Congratulations.”
She took the bag with only her fingertips and passed it to an assistant without glancing inside.
Her eyes scanned my face eagerly, searching for signs of pain. “This must be incredibly difficult for you,” she said loudly enough for the people behind her to hear. “Since you couldn’t give Mark any more children after Leo.
Because of your complications, right? But don’t worry—I’m planning to fill this home with little ones. A true legacy.”
Her words were sharp and deliberate.
The older version of myself would have cried. But the version who survived the divorce just smiled—a thin smile carved from pure survival. “Quality over quantity, Tiffany,” I said evenly.
Mark hurried over, sensing tension. “Sarah, good to see you. Leo, look at you!
“Hi, Dad,” Leo murmured, moving closer to me. “We’ll mingle,” I said, taking a step back. “Nice event, Mark.”
As Leo and I walked toward the lemonade table, I kept watching Tiffany.
She floated from group to group, smiling, posing, flipping her hair. That nagging feeling grew stronger. I remembered my eighth month of pregnancy.
I could barely stand without support. My feet had swollen so much they barely fit into sandals. Tiffany, meanwhile, was balancing effortlessly in four-inch heels, turning and bending like someone who wasn’t carrying anything at all.
“Mom, your hand is squeezing me,” Leo said. I released him immediately. “Sorry, baby.”
“Why is she walking like that?” he asked.
“You showed me videos of you when you had me. You walked like a penguin.”
But something felt fake. Too perfect. Manufactured.
Then, suddenly, the music stopped. A high-pitched squeal echoed from the speakers. “Everyone gather, please!” Mark announced proudly.
“The sun is almost down, and Tiffany has a wonderful surprise. A brand-new 4D ultrasound from yesterday! You’re all about to meet the heir!”
The lights dimmed.
A huge projection screen descended slowly. People moved closer, whispering in excitement. Emotional background music began playing—soft piano, sentimental and dramatic.
“Look, Leo,” I whispered, guiding him to a seat. “This is for your baby brother.”
Leo sat down, restless. “Can I play on your phone?”
“In a minute,” I murmured.
The projector came alive. The large screen showed a high-resolution image: the womb, the fluid, the faint outline of a tiny face. The crowd gasped in wonder.
“Oh my goodness! That jawline!” someone near the front exclaimed. “Definitely Mark’s kid!”
Tiffany stood proudly beside the screen, holding a microphone.
She touched her belly again. “Dr. Evans told us he’s very active.
He kicks nonstop. Mark thinks he’ll be a striker.”
Mark’s eyes shined as he stared at the screen. He looked like a man watching his legacy unfold in gold.
I watched quietly. But then the camera angle on the video shifted. And Leo—who had been bored until then—stopped fidgeting.
His eyes narrowed. “Mom!” he shouted suddenly. His voice cut clean through the music.
“Leo,” I whispered hastily. “Quiet—”
“No, Mom!” He climbed onto his chair and pointed at the screen. “That’s MY picture!
That’s ME!”
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