Chapter 6: The Silver

The lawyer told me not to go.

"A baby shower is the worst possible stage," she said on the phone. "Everyone will be on her side."

"They're all teachers and church ladies," I said. "They'll be on whatever side has the cake."

She sighed, and she emailed me a demand letter anyway.

On Saturday at five to two, Ansel parked the Subaru across the street from my parents' house in Grandview.

I had grown up in that house. It had the same blue shutters and the same crooked mailbox.

Balloons were tied to the porch rail, pink and white.

"I'll wait here," Ansel said.

"You don't have to."

"I know. I'm going to anyway." He looked at the porch. "If anyone touches you, I won't wait."

I got out of the car with one folded newspaper clipping, one envelope and a canvas tote bag.

Then I walked up the driveway with my hand on my belly.

Inside, there were fifty women in sundresses and a table of tea sandwiches.

There was a cake shaped like a stroller.

Darla sat in a wicker chair in the center of the living room.

She wore a corsage on her blouse, and a pile of gifts lay at her feet.

Otto stood behind her chair with a tray of lemonade, smiling at everyone.

My mother was pouring tea from a silver pot.

It was my grandmother's pot.

The room noticed me at the same time.

Conversation did not stop all at once. It went out in pieces, from the doorway to the kitchen.

"Hazel," Darla said, and half stood.

"Sit down, sweetheart," my mother said, without looking up. "She isn't staying."

"I'm not," I said. "I'm only here for what's mine."

I turned to the women.

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