Vanessa answered first.
To her credit, she recovered quickly. That was one of her most dangerous traits. Even with the fake belly still visible on the couch behind her, she managed to arrange her face into something halfway between concern and confusion.
“Margaret—”
I shoved the gift bags into her arms so hard she nearly dropped them.
“Where,” I said, my voice trembling, “is my grandson?”
Her expression flickered.
Only for a second, but I saw it. Calculation. She was measuring how much I had heard.
Ethan came up behind her. “Mom, come inside.”
I let out a sharp, broken laugh. “So you can put on another performance for me?”
He reached for my elbow. I stepped back.
“No,” I said. “You don’t touch me.”
Vanessa placed the bags down slowly near the door. “This is not what it looks like.”
I glanced past her at the silicone belly lying on the couch like a discarded prop. “That line should be illegal.”
Ethan shut the door behind me once I stepped in—maybe to keep neighbors from hearing, maybe because betrayal always prefers privacy. The living room smelled of vanilla candles and fresh paint from the nursery I had helped decorate. Pale green walls. A crib in the corner. Folded blankets. A mobile of little clouds hanging over nothing.
Everything fake.
Everything staged.
Everything built with my money, my hope, my grief, and my trust.
I turned to Ethan. “Tell me I misheard you.”
He didn’t.
That was worse than lying.
Vanessa tried first. “We were going to tell you.”
“When?” I asked. “After the fake miscarriage? Before or after I buried a child who never existed?”
Ethan flinched as if my words hurt physically. Good.
“It got out of hand,” he said quietly.
