She led us upstairs, chattering about organic paint and sustainably harvested timber. Bennett fell into step beside me, his fingers brushing against mine. “Notice anything?” he whispered.
“Like what?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
He shook his head. “Never mind. Later.”
The second bedroom had been transformed into a vision in soft pinks and creams. A crystal chandelier hung over a hand-carved crib. The walls featured a hand-painted mural of a whimsical forest. A plush armchair sat in the corner beside a bookshelf already filled with children’s classics.
“It’s stunning,” Sierra gasped.
“Absolutely,” I agreed, though a question nagged at me. This level of luxury seemed at odds with Colette and Alaric’s usual taste and their budget. Alaric worked in publishing, and Colette ran a small nonprofit. This room alone probably cost more than they made in three months.
“Most of it was donated by vendors who support the maternal health initiative,” Colette explained, as if reading my thoughts. “They want to showcase their products.”
“That’s convenient,” Opel remarked, her therapist’s skepticism showing through.
Colette’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. “It’s networking. The best kind.”
As the others admired the custom wallpaper, I noticed Bennett standing in the doorway, his phone out. He was taking pictures of the room, zooming in on specific details. When he caught me watching, he quickly pocketed the device.
Downstairs, the party was in full swing. Games were played, advice cards filled out, and gifts piled high. Through it all, Bennett remained on the periphery, watching, texting, his usual social charm nowhere to be found. During a lull, I cornered him by the drinks table.
“What’s going on with you today?”
“Nothing,” he said, but his eyes continued to scan the room. “Just tired.”
“You keep saying that, but you’re acting weird. You’ve barely spoken to anyone.”
He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “I’m sorry. I just noticed some things that don’t add up.”
Before I could press further, the photographer called for a group photo. We arranged ourselves around Colette, who positioned herself front and center, hands cradling her belly. As the photographer counted down, Bennett stepped back, his attention caught by someone across the room. His eyes narrowed, and he pulled out his phone again, typing rapidly. I followed his gaze to a man standing near the gift table, middle-aged with salt-and-pepper hair. He watched Colette with an expression I couldn’t quite place. Concern? Confusion?
“Who’s that?” I whispered to Sierra.
She shrugged. “Maybe one of Alaric’s colleagues.”
The photo session ended, and Colette’s mother, Patricia Whitman, took center stage. She was a formidable woman, her blonde hair cut in a severe bob that framed her surgically enhanced features.
“When Colette told me she was finally expecting,” Patricia began, glass raised, “I thought of all the silence we’ve endured, all the waiting. This baby girl is truly a blessing after long silence.”
The room erupted in applause. Beside me, Bennett stiffened.
“We have to go,” he said abruptly, his voice low but urgent. “Now.”
“What? We can’t just leave in the middle of—”
“Sarah.” His fingers wrapped around my wrist, firm but not painful. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that startled me. “Trust me. We need to go.”
“Bennett, this is my best friend’s baby shower. I can’t just—”
“I’ll explain in the car,” he cut me off. “Please.”
Something in his tone—not panic, but absolute certainty—made me relent. I made quick apologies to Colette, blaming a hospital emergency. She pouted but accepted my excuse, extracting a promise that we’d have lunch soon. As we drove away, the lavender balloons still visible in the rearview mirror, I turned to Bennett.
“This better be good.”
His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “It’s not good, Sarah. It’s not good at all.”
The silence in our car felt physical, like a third passenger wedged between us. “Are you going to tell me what that was about?” I finally asked. “Or should I just guess?”
Bennett’s jaw tightened. “Give me a minute to figure out how to say this.”
“Say what? That you embarrassed me in front of everyone I care about? That you pulled me out of my best friend’s baby shower like we were fleeing a crime scene?”
He didn’t respond. We drove in silence for another fifteen minutes. When we passed the midpoint marker, Bennett finally spoke.
“Colette’s not pregnant.”
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. When none came, I laughed, a short, incredulous sound. “What are you talking about? We were just at her baby shower. I saw her belly.”
“You saw something,” he agreed, his voice clinically detached. “But it wasn’t a seven-month pregnancy.”
“That’s insane. I’ve known Colette since we were six years old. I think I’d know if she was faking a pregnancy.”
“Would you?” His eyes flicked to mine. “When was the last time you actually touched her stomach?”
The question landed like a slap. I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again. I pictured every interaction over the past months. Each time there had been hugs, but always at angles, always brief.
“She doesn’t like people touching her belly,” I said defensively. “Lots of pregnant women don’t.”
“That’s convenient.”
“Stop it,” I snapped. “This is ridiculous. You can’t possibly think Colette is faking this. What would be the point?”
Bennett sighed. “The man at the gift table? That was Dr. Nathaniel Harmon. He’s an obstetrician at my hospital.”
“So? Maybe he’s her doctor.”
“He’s not. He works exclusively at Mercy General. Colette goes to St. Elizabeth’s. You told me that yourself.”
“Maybe she switched doctors.”
“Sarah,” Bennett’s voice was gentle now. “He recognized me. We made eye contact, and he looked concerned. Deeply concerned.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know exactly. But after that, I overheard Alaric on the phone in the hallway. He said, and I quote, ‘She’s starting to believe it herself. We need to speed this up.’”
A chill ran through me. “That could have been about anything.”
“Then explain the medical reports I saw in Colette’s home office last week when we were helping them move furniture.”
“You were snooping through their papers?” I was aghast.
“They were out on the desk. Blood test panels, Sarah. Not consistent with pregnancy.”
“You had no right!”
“I’m a doctor. I know what I saw.”
Anger flared inside me. “So what? You think this is all some elaborate hoax? That my best friend is walking around with a fake bump, pretending to be pregnant? Do you hear how crazy that sounds?”
“More than crazy,” he agreed. “Possibly pathological.”
“This is… this is jealousy! You’ve always been weird about my friendship with Colette.”
Bennett’s face hardened. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it? Ever since we got married, you’ve made comments about how much time I spend with her, how she calls too late, how she always needs something!”
“Because she’s manipulative!” His voice rose for the first time. “She uses you, Sarah. She always has.”
“Pull over,” my voice was ice. “What?”
“Pull over.”
Bennett guided the car onto the shoulder. We sat in charged silence.
“I don’t want to fight,” he said finally. “I’m telling you what I observed because I’m worried for you. For her, even.”
I turned to stare out the window, fighting back tears. “You’re wrong about this.”
“I hope I am,” his voice was soft now. “But think about it. Really think. When did she announce? January. That’s seven months ago. Has her body changed the way a pregnant woman’s would? Not just her stomach—her face, her ankles, her overall weight?”
I thought about Colette at the shower. Her slender arms, her defined jawline, her slim ankles in those strappy heels. Pregnant women retained water.
“She’s always been thin,” I said weakly.
“She’s not drinking alcohol. But has she mentioned morning sickness? Food aversions? Back pain?”
I hadn’t. Colette’s pregnancy had been, by her own account, practically magical. No symptoms, no discomfort.
“And that nursery,” Bennett continued. “Everything’s still in packaging. Nothing assembled. Almost like it’s for show.”
“Stop,” I covered my ears childishly. “Just stop.”
He fell silent. Slowly, unwillingly, I let myself consider his observations. The careful way Colette positioned herself in photos. How she never seemed to need bathroom breaks. The vague answers about due dates.
“Why?” I whispered, dropping my hands. “Why would anyone do this?”
“I don’t know,” Bennett admitted. “Attention? Money? That shower wasn’t cheap, and she said most things were donated. What does that even mean?”
The extravagance replayed in my mind. Colette’s nonprofit focused on maternal health in underserved communities. Could there be a connection?
“I need to know for sure,” I said finally.
Bennett nodded, putting the car back in drive. “So do I.”
The day after the shower, I texted Colette. Left my shawl at your place yesterday. Okay if I swing by to grab it?
Her response came almost immediately. So sorry, not home now. Doctor’s appointment in the city. Merade is there, though. She can let you in.
Perfect. Merade, Colette’s younger sister, was less guarded. If anyone would slip up, it would be her. I drove to Colette’s house, my heart pounding. Merade opened the door, her surprise genuine.
“I left my shawl yesterday,” I explained, forcing a smile.
“Sure, come in. It’s probably in the living room.”
The house felt hollow, staged. “The shower was beautiful,” I said. “You all must have worked so hard.”
“Mostly the event planner,” Merade shrugged. “Colette had very specific requirements.”
“I’m sure she did.” I moved toward the dining room, where a bottle of red wine sat open on the table beside a plate with half a steak.
“Late breakfast?” Merade flushed. “Alaric’s, from last night.”
Steak and red wine. “Bit heavy for Colette these days, isn’t it?”
“Oh, she didn’t—” Merade stopped herself, eyes widening slightly. “I mean, she had something else. Pregnancy-friendly.”
I nodded, filing away the slip. “Where is Colette today?”
“Yeah, she went to a clinic out of town. Special monitoring or something.” Her voice wavered.
“Is everything okay with the baby?” I pressed.
“Fine. Everything’s fine,” the answer came too quickly.
“Mind if I check upstairs for my shawl? Maybe it ended up in the nursery.”
“I’ll come with you,” Merade said a little too eagerly.
The nursery looked exactly as it had yesterday, pristine, untouched. None of the boxes were opened. The crib parts were still wrapped in plastic. “It’s like a showroom,” I murmured.
“Colette wants everything perfect before she opens anything,” Merade explained.
As Merade turned to check the closet, I noticed a small journal wedged behind the changing table, as if it had fallen. When she wasn’t looking, I slipped it into my purse.
“Not here,” Merade announced.
We returned downstairs. “I should get going,” I said finally. “I probably left it in the car.”
“I’ll tell Colette you stopped by,” Merade offered.
“Please do.” I paused. “Merade, is everything really okay with Colette?”
Something flickered across her face. “She’s going through a lot,” she said carefully. “But she’ll be fine.”
I was halfway to my car when I heard voices from the side of the house. Instinctively, I ducked behind a large hydrangea bush. Colette’s voice, clear and sharp, carried through the open kitchen window.
“I don’t care what he thinks. This will be over after the donation clears.”
My blood ran cold. Donation? I crept closer, but Colette had lowered her voice. I could make out only fragments. “…not backing out now…” and “…too much invested.”
The sound of footsteps sent me scrambling back to my car. I slid into the driver’s seat just as Colette rounded the corner of the house, phone pressed to her ear, her face set in a calculating, cold expression.
Once safely down the street, I pulled over and called Bennett. “You might be right,” I said, my voice shaking. “Something’s definitely off.”
I told him everything. “Keep the journal,” he advised. “We might need it as evidence.”
“Evidence of what? What exactly do you think is happening here?”
Bennett’s voice was grim. “Best case scenario, some kind of delusional episode. Worst case, fraud.”
After we hung up, I sat in my car, staring at Colette’s journal. I took a deep breath and flipped to the first page.
My dearest daughter, though you’re not yet in my arms, you’re already in my heart… They don’t understand. They say it’s not possible. That I should accept reality. But mothers know. Mothers always know…
The entry was dated three years ago. I flipped through more pages, each one a letter to this phantom daughter. Some were hopeful, some angry, some desperate. The most recent, dated just two weeks ago, sent chills down my spine.
My miracle girl, they’ve all finally accepted your coming. The donations are flowing in. Soon we’ll have everything we need to bring you home properly. Just a little longer now, and no one will be able to take you away from me again. Forever yours, Mommy.
What had happened three years ago? Had there been a pregnancy no one knew about? A loss?
My phone buzzed with a text from Colette. Saw you driving away. Did you find your shawl? I froze. Before I could decide, another text came through. Sarah, I need to tell you something. Something I haven’t told anyone else. Can we meet tomorrow somewhere private? You’re the only one I trust with the truth.
I stared at the screen, a mixture of dread and vindication washing over me. The cabin at Lake Morrison. Noon. Come alone.
The cabin. Her family’s summer place, isolated and private. The perfect spot for a confession. Or a confrontation.
The drive to Lake Morrison took forty minutes, each mile heightening my anxiety. I’d barely slept. The cabin sat nestled among tall pines, its weathered wood a fixture of my childhood memories. I spotted Colette’s white SUV parked under the carport. There was no turning back.
Before I could knock, the door swung open. Colette stood there dressed in a simple white sundress. No baby bump, no pregnancy glow. Just Colette, her face bare of makeup, her blue eyes rimmed with red.
“You knew,” she said simply. It wasn’t a question.
I nodded, unable to find words.
She stepped back. “I should have realized Bennett would figure it out. Doctors notice things.”
The cabin’s interior was dim. Colette moved to the worn leather couch. “Do you hate me?” she asked.
I remained standing. “I don’t hate you. I just… I don’t understand.”
She laughed, a brittle sound. “That makes two of us.” She poured water from a pitcher, her hands steady. “I wasn’t always lying,” she began. “A year ago, I was pregnant. For real.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“Eight weeks. We hadn’t told anyone yet. We were waiting.” Her voice was flat, emotionless. “I miscarried on a Tuesday. Alaric was in London for work. I was alone.”
“Colette,” I moved toward her, instinct overriding caution. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because you had just announced your promotion. Everyone was so proud of you.” She shrugged. “I didn’t want to steal your moment.”
The familiar guilt twisted in my gut. The constant push-pull of our friendship, where her needs and mine perpetually competed for oxygen.
“After the miscarriage, I fell apart,” she continued. “But secretly. No one knew except Alaric and my doctor.”
“And then?”
“And then I stopped accepting it. I started talking to the baby like she was still there, buying things, planning.”
“When did it become… this?” I gestured vaguely.
She sighed. “Three months ago. I was supposed to speak at a maternal health fundraiser for my nonprofit. I had a panic attack before going on stage. Alaric found me hyperventilating. I kept saying I couldn’t face them, couldn’t tell them I’d failed. And then he said, ‘What if you didn’t have to?’”
My blood ran cold. “He suggested you fake the pregnancy?”
“Not exactly. He suggested I could say I was newly pregnant, just to get through the event. We’d announce a loss later.” Her eyes met mine, hollow. “But it felt so good, Sarah. The congratulations, the attention, the way people looked at me like I was special again.”
“So you kept going.”
“It snowballed. One event became another. A small bump became a bigger one. And then the donations started coming in.”
“Donations?”
Colette stood, moving to a desk. She returned with a folder. “Here. See for yourself.”
The documents showed substantial donations to her nonprofit, New Beginnings Maternal Care. “The foundation is real,” she explained. “The work we do is real.”
“What isn’t real is… your pregnancy.”
She nodded. “I don’t understand. Why would your pregnancy affect donations?”
“Because of who the donors are.” She shuffled through the papers, pulling out several checks with familiar names. The Graves Foundation, the Williams Trust. “They all have one thing in common. They all lost children or grandchildren. They donate to maternal health care because of personal tragedy. They connect with me because they think I understand their fear.”
The calculation of it all stunned me. “So the baby shower was a fundraiser, essentially.”
“Every gift, every decoration, all donated by companies that support New Beginnings. They get tax write-offs and publicity. We get supplies for our clinics.”
It was manipulative, deceptive, but criminal? I wasn’t sure.
My phone buzzed. A text from Bennett. The obstetrician just emailed me. He says he filed a fraud report.
My heart sank. I looked up at Colette, who was watching me. “Bad news?” she asked.
I hesitated, then turned my phone screen toward her. She read the message, her face draining of color.
“Who else knows?” I asked quietly.
“Just Alaric and Merade. She figured it out last month.” Colette’s composure cracked. “Sarah, I can’t go to jail. The foundation will collapse. All those women we help, they’ll have nothing.”
“You should have thought of that before you started this… this performance.”
“I know,” tears spilled down her cheeks. “I know it was wrong. But I’ll make it right. Once the final donation from Graves clears, for a new ultrasound machine, I’ll announce that I lost the baby. There’ll be sympathy, not suspicion.”
The coldness of her planning chilled me. This wasn’t grief speaking. This was calculation.
“And what about all the people who care about you? Who’ve been worried about you, shopping for you? What about their feelings?”
“They’ll recover,” she said dismissively. “People always do.”
“I’m not sure I will,” I admitted.
Something shifted in Colette’s expression, a flash of the girl I’d grown up with. “I need you, Sarah. You’re the only person who won’t abandon me over this.”
The weight of twenty years pressed down on me. The sleepovers, the weddings, the secrets shared.
“I’ll think about it,” I said finally. “But Colette, this has to stop. Today.”
She nodded, desperation in her eyes. “Anything you want. Just don’t tell anyone else. Please.”
As I drove away, I felt hollow. On the highway, I took the next exit and pulled into a coffee shop, searching my phone contacts. There it was: Penelope Graves, the stern widow I’d met at a charity gala. I dialed her number.
“Mrs. Graves, this is Sarah Walker. I was wondering if I could ask you about a donation you made to New Beginnings Maternal Care.”
Thirty minutes later, I sat stunned in my car, Mrs. Graves’s words echoing in my ears. “Colette promised the baby would be named after my late husband, Edward. She said it would be a living memorial.”
This wasn’t just faking a pregnancy. It was strategic emotional manipulation of grieving families. And suddenly, I knew I couldn’t protect Colette anymore.
The anonymous post appeared on a local community forum three days later. FRAUD ALERT: Local nonprofit director faking pregnancy to secure donations. I didn’t write it. Neither did Bennett. But the damage was done. Within hours, the story spread like wildfire.
Colette’s phone went straight to voicemail. Alaric deleted his accounts. Bennett was called in to speak with hospital administration, as was Dr. Harmon. Both were asked to provide statements.
The letter arrived the next day, hand-delivered. I recognized Colette’s elegant handwriting. Sarah, I know what you did. I trusted you with my truth, and you betrayed me… You were always jealous of my life… You’ve destroyed everything I built. I hope you’re satisfied.
No apology, no acknowledgement. Just blame, shifted squarely onto my shoulders.
The doorbell rang. Sierra stood on our porch, looking exhausted. “Can I come in?”
I led her to the kitchen. “I feel like such an idiot,” she said. “I lent her three thousand dollars.”
My head snapped up. “What?”
“For the nursery. She said it was temporary, that a big design commission was coming through.” Sierra’s eyes filled with tears. “There is no baby, is there?”
“No,” I confirmed gently. “There isn’t.”
After Sierra left, I called Opel. “I’ve been expecting your call,” she said. “You want to know if she asked me for money, too.”
“Did she?”
“Not directly. But she talked a lot about her foundation’s work, how they needed a mental health component, how perfect I would be to consult. I offered to volunteer my time. She seemed disappointed.”
My phone buzzed again. Gage, Colette’s brother. “Sarah,” his voice was ragged. “Have you heard from Colette?”
“No. Have you?”
“Not since yesterday. She called me crying. I knew something was wrong. For months, I knew. The police are involved now. Someone filed fraud charges.”
My stomach dropped. “Already?”
“Multiple donors, apparently. And Sarah… she’s gone. Cleaned out her accounts this morning and disappeared.”
I called Bennett at the hospital. “Colette’s missing,” I said without preamble.
“She might come to you,” he said finally.
“Why would she? She blames me for exposing her.”
“Because you’re her constant. Her emotional safety net. Even when she’s pushing you away, she’s really pulling you closer.”
His words haunted me. The rain started around nine, a gentle patter that grew into a downpour. Bennett had been called in for an emergency surgery, leaving me alone. Just as I decided to try to sleep, a soft knock came at the door. I peered through the peephole. Colette stood on our porch, soaked to the skin, hair plastered to her face. Broken and dripping.
I opened the door. She didn’t speak, just stared at me with empty eyes. Then, like a puppet with cut strings, she collapsed forward into my arms.
I settled her on the couch, wrapping her in a throw blanket. She stared straight ahead, unresponsive. After what felt like hours, she spoke one sentence, barely a whisper. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do it.”
I looked at her, this stranger wearing my best friend’s face, and felt nothing but exhaustion.
Bennett found us like that when he returned home at dawn. “They’ve issued a warrant,” he said quietly, leading me into the kitchen. “Fraud. Multiple counts. The Graves Foundation is pressing charges.”
I glanced back at Colette’s sleeping form. “She has nothing left.”
“That’s not our problem,” Bennett’s voice was firm but not unkind. “Sarah, she manipulated grieving families. She can’t stay here. I want her out by noon.”
I nodded. He was right.
I made coffee and toast, setting a plate in front of Colette. “Bennett wants you gone by noon,” I said, not bothering to soften the blow.
She nodded, picking at the toast. “Where will I go?”
“You could turn yourself in. Start taking responsibility.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “They’ll put me in jail.”
“Maybe. But running will only make it worse.”
Before I could respond, a sharp knock came at the door. Through the window, I could see a police cruiser. Colette’s eyes widened in panic. She bolted from her chair, heading for the back door. I caught her arm.
“Don’t,” I pleaded. “It will only be worse if you run.”
“Let me go!” she twisted, desperate. “Sarah, please. I can’t go to jail!”
In that moment, I had to choose: the friend I’d known forever, or the truth I couldn’t ignore. The loyalty that had defined most of my life, or the moral clarity that had emerged from its ashes.
“I’ll speak for you,” I said finally, releasing her arm. “I’ll tell them you came here voluntarily, that you’re cooperative. It might help.”
She sagged against the wall, defeated. “You really think I’m a monster, don’t you?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I think you’re lost. And I can’t find you anymore.”
Weeks turned to months. Colette accepted a plea deal: probation, restitution, community service, and mandatory psychiatric treatment. The foundation was dissolved, its remaining assets transferred to legitimate maternal health organizations. I testified as promised, walking the line between honesty and mercy. I described the miscarriage, the grief that spiraled into delusion, the genuine work the foundation had done. I didn’t mention the calculated way she’d targeted specific donors or the journal entries. Some would call it perjury by omission. I called it the last act of friendship I could offer.
Six months after the baby shower, a letter arrived from the psychiatric facility where Colette was receiving inpatient care.
Sarah,
They tell me writing this is part of my recovery. Acknowledging the harm I’ve caused. Accepting responsibility. I’m not sure I know the difference yet between genuine remorse and performative apology. I’m not sure I know who I am when no one is watching.
But I do know this: you saved me from myself. Not the way a friend would, looking away, making excuses. The way a sister would—hard truth and harder love.
I don’t expect forgiveness. But I needed you to know that in the wreckage of everything I destroyed, there is one thing I finally understand: the difference between being seen and being known.
Colette
I folded the letter and placed it in a memory box, alongside photos from our childhood, friendship bracelets, and a piece of the pale blue shawl I’d invented as an excuse to investigate her house. Then I drove to the baby shower venue, a converted barn now empty and quiet in the autumn light. I sat alone on the steps, watching leaves spiral down from nearby trees, thinking about all the invisible things we choose not to see in those we love. Colette taught me that some lies are told for love, but others are told because someone loved the attention more than the truth.
