That’s what I held dear.

Guests began to arrive, their laughter echoing through the garden. My father praised the curated wine selection, my mother adjusted the place settings with care, and my cousins exchanged lively tales from their jobs and studies. For a fleeting moment, harmony enveloped us.

Then Michael appeared.

He wasn’t alone.

A woman accompanied him, her striking red dress accentuating her form, her hand delicately resting on her visibly pregnant belly. Her beauty was captivating, but what struck me most wasn’t her presence. It was Michael’s hand, placed with unmistakable pride, almost ownership, on her stomach, as if presenting his proudest accomplishment.

A chill coursed through me.