Chapter 8 - THE BABY SHOWER HE DIDN'T ATTEND
My baby shower was held on a Saturday afternoon in a small restaurant near Lincoln Park. Rachel organized it without asking Vincent for money. My mother brought handmade blankets, my friends brought books, and the pastry chef made a cake shaped like a yellow moon.
I had never imagined celebrating a child while my marriage unraveled. I expected the day to feel incomplete. Instead it felt gentle. No one demanded to know why Vincent wasn't there. They hugged me, laughed about tiny socks, and asked whether I'd chosen a name.
I hadn't.
I had a list in my notebook, but every name sounded like it belonged to a future I couldn't picture yet.
Halfway through the party, Rachel's phone rang. She looked at the screen and stepped outside. When she returned, her expression had changed.
“Vincent sent flowers.”
I closed my eyes. “Please tell me you didn't bring them in.”
“They're at the front desk. There's a card.”
I thought of the messages he'd sent, the photographs, the apologies that never quite reached the truth.
“Give the card to Evelyn,” I said. “I don't want to open it here.”
Rachel nodded, and the party continued.
That evening, Evelyn called. The card contained another request for reconciliation and a promise that Vincent would sign whatever financial documents were necessary to protect me. It wasn't a legal agreement and didn't address the disputed signatures, but it was recorded with the other communications.
There was also new information from Nathan. The financial investigation had uncovered a scheduled transfer from Second Harbor to an entity connected to Sophia's household. The transfer was large and due near the end of the year. It appeared designed to establish a long-term fund, but its funding source was disputed.
I felt an unexpected flash of anger—not at Emma, but at the machinery. Even after the story became public, the accounts kept moving as though my consent were optional.
Evelyn assured me that the transaction was under review and that the relevant institutions had been notified.
“Does Sophia know?” I asked.
“Her attorney has been informed.”
“Good. I don't want a child depending on money that might be taken away because an adult concealed where it came from.”
The divorce proceedings continued alongside the pregnancy. Vincent agreed to temporary arrangements covering medical costs and financial disclosures, though a final property settlement remained unresolved. Some of his legitimate businesses were being audited. Others had their records preserved because of the disputed signatures.
I didn't read every news article about him. The headlines turned my marriage into a story about a crime boss, a young assistant, and two households. They had no room for the hours I spent wondering whether the baby's movements were normal or whether I could afford childcare while managing an interior-design business.
Those ordinary concerns were my actual life.
At my next appointment, the doctor told me the pregnancy was progressing well. She reviewed labor warning signs and asked whether I had a support person for delivery.
“Rachel,” I said without hesitation.
She smiled. “We'll put that in your chart.”
One evening, Vincent called from a number I hadn't blocked. I answered because I wanted to resolve a practical question about an insurance form. He sounded tired.
“Can I ask about the baby?”
“You can ask. I may not answer everything.”
“Is the baby healthy?”
“So far, yes.”
He exhaled. “Thank God.”
I waited.
“I miss you,” he said.
“I know.”
“Emma asks about you.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Why would she ask about me?”
“She saw a picture of you on my desk. She wanted to know who you were.”
“What did you tell her?”
He hesitated.
“Vincent.”
“I told her you're my wife.”
“Did you tell her you'd hidden that fact for years?”
“She's six.”
“Then give her an age-appropriate truth. Don't make her responsible for protecting you from the consequences.”
He was silent.
“Her mother is working with a counselor,” he said finally. “Emma is upset. She's afraid I'll disappear.”
It was the first time he'd described Emma's pain without using it to demand something from me.
“Then be consistent with her, within whatever arrangements you make with Sophia. Don't promise her things you can't keep.”
He whispered, “I don't know how to do this.”
“You learn. Just like everyone else.”
I ended the call and rested my hand over my stomach.
I wasn't going to teach Vincent how to be a father by absorbing the consequences of his lies.
He would have to do that work himself.
The baby shower brought together women who had known me at different stages of my life. My college roommate remembered the girl who wanted to travel and design hotels in distant cities. My first boss remembered the junior designer who argued passionately for natural light in every small apartment. Rachel remembered the sister who once refused to let a scraped knee stop her from learning to ride a bicycle.
They told stories that had nothing to do with Vincent. At first, I found that strange. For seven years, I had been introduced as Mrs. Moretti so often that I almost forgot how many people had known Claire before the marriage. Hearing their memories was like receiving pieces of myself back.
My mother gave me a scrapbook she'd been making since I announced the pregnancy. It contained the first ultrasound, a photograph of the nursery wall, the receipt from the yellow blanket, and a page where each guest could write a wish for the baby. There was a space at the end marked FIRST DAY HOME.
“You can add to it as you go,” she said. “It doesn't have to be finished before the baby arrives.”
I cried into her shoulder. The book was a plan for a future that left room for surprises instead of pretending someone had already decided every step.
After the party, Rachel helped me put the gifts away. We opened the box of a small baby monitor and spent twenty minutes trying to connect it to the wireless network. When it finally worked, Rachel held the camera up to her face and whispered, “Attention, tiny roommate. Your aunt is in charge of all fun.”
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
The next morning, an article appeared describing Vincent's “two competing families.” I did not click it. Rachel read enough to know that it contained guesses about Emma and our unborn child, then reported the most intrusive claims to the publication. I asked our attorneys to handle any corrections that were necessary.
The public story had turned children into labels. I refused to do the same.
At an appointment that week, my doctor asked whether I had decided on a support person for the birth. I said Rachel would be there, and my mother would be available afterward. The doctor asked whether I wanted information about postpartum support services. I did. We discussed practical help, signs of postpartum complications, and the importance of rest.
I left with a folder that contained medical instructions rather than promises from Vincent. It was reassuring in its plainness.
That evening, I wrote three names on a sheet of paper. None sounded quite right, so I folded the list and put it under the yellow blanket. I decided I would meet the baby before choosing.
For so long, my marriage had consisted of waiting for Vincent to make a decision.
Now I was giving myself permission to wait for the right reason: not because someone had forbidden me to act, but because some choices were worth making carefully.
After the baby shower, I sorted the gifts by what we would need first: diapers, swaddles, simple clothes, feeding supplies, and the safety items the pediatrician recommended. The extravagant objects amused me, but it was the practical things that made the nursery feel ready. A friend had given me a box of secondhand board books with a note: FOR ALL THE STORIES YOU WILL TELL TOGETHER.
I placed them on the new shelf Rachel and I had assembled. The shelf still leaned slightly, but it held.
My counselor asked whether I was anxious about the birth without Vincent. I admitted that I was. I'd once imagined him holding my hand through labor, and losing that image felt like grieving someone who had never actually died. She encouraged me to make a detailed support plan that did not require pretending I was never sad.
Rachel agreed to be present. My mother would be on call. I spoke with the hospital staff about my preferences, knowing that medical needs could require changes. Every time I made a plan with someone who told me what they could and couldn't promise, I felt less frightened.
May you like
Vincent sent another message asking whether he could choose the baby's middle name. I forwarded it to Evelyn. I wasn't ready to discuss naming through demands, and I didn't want the decision used as proof that we'd reconciled. The name would wait until I had met my child.
For now, I folded the tiny clothes and pictured a baby sleeping in the room I'd prepared. It was enough.
