But it was my mother-in-law, Catherine, who finally broke the silence.

“Well,” she said, setting down her porcelain teacup with a sharp, deliberate clink. She smoothed the fabric of her skirt, not looking at her son, but at me. “I suppose this finally explains why the baby doesn’t look like our family in the ultrasound photos.”

The cruelty in her voice hit me like a physical slap. This woman who had pretended to love me for three years, who had helped me pick out ‘Buttercup Yellow’ paint for the nursery just last week, was now sitting there with satisfaction written in the lines around her mouth.