The real scene came with the food.
Sarah ordered seafood risotto but grew pale halfway through and excused herself to the restroom. Morning sickness had been difficult lately. She returned looking steadier but admitted she needed a brief break.
That’s when my mother loudly declared, “Sarah, if you’re unwell, perhaps you should eat in the bathroom. This is Jessica’s special night, and we’re here to enjoy a proper meal.”
The table froze. Mark’s parents looked horrified. Before I could respond, my mom added, “Pregnant women shouldn’t remain at the table if they can’t compose themselves. It disturbs everyone else.”
Jessica smirked and stood: “Mom’s right. You’re spoiling the evening. You should have stayed home.”
Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes, though she held them back and apologized—an apology that only deepened my fury. She was being shamed simply for carrying our child.
I didn’t raise my voice. Instead, I smiled, stood, and offered Sarah my hand. “Let’s go home, love.” Her look shifted from shock to relief. I picked up her purse, grabbed the cake slice I had set aside, and told the table, “Please, enjoy the evening. I trust everything is to your satisfaction.”
