Aubrey’s baby shower was three weeks later.
And even though I knew—logically—that she wasn’t pregnant, part of me still felt like I was walking into something dangerous.
My parents begged me to come.
“It’ll look bad if you don’t,” Mom said. “People will talk.”
“I don’t care,” I replied.
Dad sighed. “Your sister is fragile.”
“She’s volatile,” Evan corrected, standing beside me with his arms crossed.
Mom’s voice cracked. “Please. Just for an hour. Keep things calm.”
Keep things calm.
That was always the job they handed me: human sandbag against Aubrey’s flood.
But Marsha had advised something different: don’t isolate. Don’t go alone. Don’t let them control the narrative without witnesses.
So I agreed—to show up briefly, with Evan, and leave the second anything turned.
We drove to my parents’ house with my ultrasound photos in my purse like armor. My belly was unmistakable now—sixteen weeks, no more hiding in baggy sweaters.
When we arrived, the front yard looked like a pastel explosion: balloons, a rented canopy, folding tables covered in baby-themed tablecloths.
Neighbors and relatives milled around with gift bags and forced smiles.
Aubrey was inside holding court, dressed in a soft pink maternity dress that hugged her fake belly perfectly. She looked radiant—because she was performing.
When she saw me walk in, her eyes flicked to my stomach so fast it was almost a twitch.
Her smile tightened.
Then she floated over like a queen approaching a peasant.
“Well,” she said sweetly, loud enough for people nearby to hear. “Look who decided to show.”
I held her gaze. “It’s a family event,” I said evenly.
Aubrey’s eyes glittered. “Mm. Just remember today isn’t about you.”
Evan stepped closer, his hand settling on my lower back.
“Today is about celebrating a lie,” he said quietly.
Aubrey’s face froze.
I saw the crack—just a hairline fracture—before she plastered her smile back on.
“Evan,” she said, voice sugary. “Don’t be weird.”
Then she turned away, already scanning the room for attention to feed on.
For the first thirty minutes, it was… normal.
Painfully normal.
Aubrey opened gifts, squealing at onesies and diapers, hugging people like a politician. My mom hovered, beaming too hard. Dad stayed near the grill like he wanted distance from the tension.
I stood near the edge of the room with Evan, making polite small talk with cousins who kept glancing at my belly like they wanted to ask questions but weren’t sure if they were allowed.
Then someone did.
My aunt Linda—Dad’s sister—came up holding a plastic cup of punch.
“So,” she said brightly, eyes dropping to my stomach, “when are you due?”
The air shifted.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that I felt it in my skin.
Aubrey’s head snapped around from across the room.
Her smile vanished.
“Aunt Linda,” Aubrey called out too loudly, “can you come see this adorable bib?”
Aunt Linda blinked, confused, then looked back at me.
I opened my mouth to answer her question.
And Aubrey moved.
Fast.
She crossed the room with the kind of speed that didn’t fit the soft pastel vibe at all.
She grabbed Aunt Linda’s arm and hissed something in her ear.
Aunt Linda’s face went pale.
“What?” Aunt Linda whispered, startled.
Aubrey’s eyes darted to me—wild now—and for the first time that day I saw the truth: she wasn’t glowing.
She was barely holding the mask on.
“Aubrey,” I said quietly. “Stop.”
Her eyes flashed. “Not here,” she snapped under her breath. “Not today.”
Aunt Linda looked between us, alarmed. “Is… everything okay?”
“No,” I said, voice calm. “Everything is not okay.”
Aubrey’s breathing quickened. She stepped back like she’d been slapped.
And then the whole thing detonated.
Not with one big moment.
With a cascade.
Someone—maybe my cousin—said softly, “Wait, isn’t she pregnant too?”
Another voice: “Why is that a problem?”
Aubrey’s eyes went glassy.
Her face flushed red.
Then she turned toward the dessert table—where her baby shower cake sat, white frosting, tiny fondant booties on top—and she shoved it.
The cake slid off the table in slow motion, hit the wall, and exploded into frosting and sponge like a grenade.
The room screamed.
My mom shrieked, “Aubrey!”
Aubrey stood there breathing hard, chest heaving, eyes wild.
“You did this,” she screamed at me. “You ruined everything!”
I barely had time to move before she grabbed a wrapped gift off the table and hurled it across the room.
It hit a chair. The chair toppled.
People backed away, panicked.
Kids started crying.
My dad rushed toward her, hands out like he was trying to calm a rabid animal.
“Aubrey, stop—”
She shoved him.
Not hard enough to knock him down, but hard enough to make the room go dead silent for a second.
Then she grabbed another gift and started ripping it open, tearing tissue paper like she was ripping through someone’s throat.
“This was supposed to be mine!” she screamed. “My moment! My baby! My—”
Her voice cracked, and something in her snapped completely.
She swung her arm and knocked a stack of plates off the table.
Plastic clattered.
Someone shouted, “Call 911!”
A cousin pulled out their phone.
Aubrey whirled toward the punch bowl table, eyes wild, and screamed something that made my blood run cold.
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