Chapter 3 - DIANE CAME TO MY APARTMENT
Diane appeared three days later.
Uninvited.
She stood outside my apartment holding an expensive baby blanket.
I did not open the security chain.
“What do you want?”
“To see the baby.”
“No.”
Her face hardened.
“I brought a gift.”
“No.”
“Rachel, don’t be childish.”
Six months earlier, that tone could still rearrange my nervous system.
Now I simply said:
“You are not entitled to access because you bought a blanket.”
“She’s going to be Jordan’s sibling’s—”
Diane stopped.
Interesting.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Grace started crying behind me.
Diane immediately leaned toward the opening.
“Let me help.”
“No.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“I have been doing it for six months.”
“That isn’t a real family.”
I almost shut the door.
Then stopped.
“No, Diane.”
I looked directly at her.
“You don’t get to do this again.”
“Do what?”
“Redefine other people’s family according to whether it flatters you.”
Her face went red.
“I only ever wanted grandchildren.”
“You wanted biological proof that your child had produced something.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“How dare you.”
“No.”
I almost smiled.
“How dare you.”
She stared.
Then:
“Jordan told me you requested the clinic records.”
“Jordan tells you too much.”
Diane looked away.
There.
My skin prickled.
“You knew.”
“Knew what?”
“You knew Jordan had abnormal testing.”
Her face changed.
Only slightly.
Enough.
“Oh my God.”
She immediately became defensive.
“It was one test.”
“Two.”
“Those labs are unreliable.”
“Dr. Shah recommended further evaluation.”
“Jordan was under stress.”
“You knew.”
Diane’s eyes filled.
“You have no idea what that would have done to them.”
I stared.
“What would it have done?”
“They would have felt less…”
She stopped.
“Less what?”
Diane looked down.
I finished for her.
“Less of a man?”
Silence.
There it was.
The ugly belief underneath years of cruelty.
Diane protected Jordan’s masculinity by sacrificing my womanhood.
“You let me take fertility injections.”
“Procedures.”
“Three years of appointments.”
“You listened while I apologized every month.”
Her voice cracked.
“We thought treatment could still work.”
“That isn’t the point.”
Then she said the worst thing.
“You were stronger.”
I laughed.
Actual laughter.
The same excuse families use when choosing one child to absorb damage.
You were stronger.
You could handle it.
“You decided my pain was cheaper.”
Diane began crying.
“No.”
“Yes.”
I shut the door.
Not slammed.
Just closed.
Then I sat on the floor and cried while Grace cried in the bedroom.
After a minute, I got up.
Picked her up.
Fed her.
Life continued.
That became my pattern.
Pain.
May you like
Then the next right thing.
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