The door swung open before we could knock. “Sarah!” Colette squealed, her arms outstretched.

My best friend stood before me, radiant in a floor-length pale pink dress. Her blonde hair was styled in loose waves, a flower crown perched atop her head. Her makeup was impeccable. She looked like something out of a glossy pregnancy magazine, the kind where models with fake bumps sell the dream of maternal bliss.