Imagine this: you’re pregnant for the second time, craving all the junk food in the world, and dreading any social interaction. Welcome to my life!
But of course, my best friend Ava had other plans. She insisted, “We need to get you out of this house, Liv. How about a pottery party?” A pottery party? Really?
The idea wasn’t my cup of tea—or in this case, my cup of strawberry drink that Ava whipped up as she tried to persuade me. “You could make adorable things for the nursery!” she said with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader on sugar high. I reluctantly agreed, mostly because Ava promised to satisfy any bizarre pregnancy cravings I might have that night.
So there I was, propping my swollen feet up and meekly saying yes to an outing I neither wanted nor needed. Ava had even arranged for my husband, Malcolm, to watch our firstborn, Tess—a sign of how desperate she was to get me out.
Fast forward to the pottery studio. It was busy and buzzing with excitement. Fifteen other women were there, all ready to mold clay and sip wine—well, wine for them, strawberry drink for me. Little did I know, this pottery party was going to spiral into a nightmare of nightmare proportions.
The chatter among the women naturally turned to birth stories. Oh, the hilarity—the collective gasps, laughs, and the occasional winces as if we were reliving the moments together. One woman, however, stood out. She recounted a tale of rushing to her boyfriend’s sister-in-law who was in labor. He had to drop everything and go. “We were watching a late-night movie, but he said the entire family wanted to be there for the birth,” she explained.
July 4th, late-night labor… that’s when my daughter Tess was born. My skin prickled. But oh, I wasn’t ready for the twist in this tale.
Struggling to keep my emotions in check, I listened as she recounted another story about a missed birth. “He was there for his niece’s birth, but not our son’s,” she said, with visible resentment.
Ava, ever the eagle-eyed detective, whispered, “Wait, did she say Malcolm?”
“Sorry, what’s your boyfriend’s name?” I asked, my voice a strange mix of calm and panic.
“Malcolm,” she said, casually, as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb in my lap.
I blinked, then pulled out my phone showing a picture of Malcolm, myself, and little Tess. “Is this him?
