Chapter 4 - Sunday Lunch at the Citadel
Darlene Whitlock’s suburban estate was practically vibrating with pastel-colored tyranny by the time Grant and I pulled into the driveway on Sunday afternoon.
The dining table inside was already overloaded with silver platters, crystal glassware, and an aggressive surplus of pink napkins, pink balloons, and floral centerpieces. And hanging dead-center above the grand stone fireplace, mocking every boundary of my marriage, was the custom nursery sign: DARLENE GRACE.
I stood in the center of the living room, staring at the sign for several long, uninterrupted seconds.
Darlene materialized at my elbow like a ghost in a floral dress. “Beautiful, isn't it? It really ties the room together.”
“Very,” I replied, my voice completely devoid of inflection.
She beamed, patting my arm patronizingly. “I knew you’d come around. Hormones make first-time mothers a little irrational, but family always brings clarity.”
I didn't grace her insult with a response. Instead, I scanned the room. Curtis Whitlock, my father-in-law, was pouring scotch at the bar cart. Grant was already mingling with his uncle. And then my eyes landed on Paige, Grant’s younger sister, sitting quietly at the edge of the dining table.
Paige wouldn't meet my eyes.
Her avoidance sent a spike of adrenaline through my veins. Paige had always been the black sheep of the family—the only Whitlock who possessed a conscience, the only one who had occasionally pulled me aside to apologize for her mother's suffocating overreach. Today, however, Paige looked terrified, her hands tightly clutched around a glass of sparkling cider as if it were a life raft.
Darlene clapped her hands sharply, cutting through the chatter. “Alright, everyone! Lunch is served, and we have a few exciting family matters to discuss regarding the nursery and the baby’s arrival.”
We all migrated to the dining table. Grant took the seat directly beside his mother at the head of the table. I was seated right across from him, giving me a direct line of sight to both of them. Curtis folded his hands like a judge preparing to deliver a verdict.
“Before we dig in,” Curtis began, clearing his throat pompously, “we need to make sure everyone understands their role once the baby arrives. Structure is vital for a newborn.”
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing aloud. Their role. My baby. My pregnancy. My home. My marriage. And these people had gathered like a board of directors to assign me my duties as an incubator.
Darlene took over the floor seamlessly. “First, the nursery at our house will be fully assembled and ready by next month.”
I paused mid-motion, fork hovering above my plate. I looked up. “You're building a nursery?”
“Yes, obviously,” Darlene said, as if stating the most mundane fact in the universe. “And second, I’ll be moving into your guest room for the first six weeks after you come home from the hospital to handle nighttime care.”
I set my napkin down on the table with deliberate slowness. “You'll be moving in?”
“Well, naturally. Grant agrees it’s for the best.”
I turned my head slowly toward my husband. “Grant? Is that right?”
Grant squirmed under my gaze. “Maren, we discussed—”
“No,” I cut him off, my voice dropping an octave into a dangerous register. “You told me your mother wanted to visit. You never said anything about her moving in for six weeks.”
“And you didn't object!” Grant snapped, his frustration finally flaring.
“I didn't know!”
Darlene leaned across the table, her eyes flashing with irritation. “This hostile attitude right here is exactly why Grant has to manage these decisions for you. You make everything a battle.”
There it was. The mask slipped entirely.
I looked straight at my husband. “Leaving decisions to me? Is that what you think?”
Grant sat in miserable silence, staring down at his plate of glazed ham.
Curtis cleared his throat loudly. “Let's not make this emotional, Maren. We're trying to help.”
May you like
Slowly, deliberately, I opened the leather tote bag resting on the floor beside my chair. I pulled out three neatly stacked sheets of paper and placed them in the center of the immaculate table, right on top of a pink napkin.
The room went dead silent.
