Mark’s sister, Lisa, leaned against the wall with her arms crossed.
“Honestly,” she muttered, “you make everything so difficult.”

I took a slow breath. The baby shifted inside me, a small but steady reminder that I wasn’t alone. I walked carefully into the kitchen. Each step felt heavier than the last, but I turned on the stove, washed the fruit, and set the kettle to boil. As I moved, I could hear their voices behind me—casual, dismissive, as if my exhaustion and silence were simply expected.

But that morning was different.

When I finished preparing the table, I placed plates and cups for everyone—and then added one more setting. Mark noticed immediately.

“What’s with the extra plate?” he asked. “Are we expecting someone?”