My mother dropped our gender reveal cake in front of forty guests, then whispered, “You can always have another baby”—the words that had broken me after my first loss. I cut her off. But before leaving, she scooped every piece into a trash bag, refusing to let the caterers throw any of it away...

Sunday morning arrived with an eerie, suffocating calm.

Rhett left early to pick up breakfast and run a few errands, trying to give me a quiet house to rest. I stood in our kitchen, holding a warm mug of decaf tea, staring out the window at the morning sunlight filtering through the trees.

My phone sat on the counter beside me.

Lorraine was blocked. I had tapped the red button myself on the drive home from the party, locking her out of my calls, my messages, and my life. But as I looked at the dark screen, a strange, persistent dread pulled at my chest.

I unlocked my phone, opened my settings, and scrolled down to my blocked contact list.

My finger hovered over her name.

Lorraine.

I unblocked her.

The moment the cellular network reconnected her profile, my phone didn't ring. Instead, three text messages flooded in simultaneously—messages she had tried to send at 2:00 AM, 4:15 AM, and 6:30 AM while I was sleeping.

Mom (2:12 AM): Maya, I know you hate me right now. I know Rhett hates me. You have every right to never speak to me again. But please, if you read this, do not let Beverly cook for you. Do not let her bring you food, tea, or vitamins. Check the envelope you gave her for the bakery.

Mom (4:15 AM): I didn't drop the cake because I was clumsy, Maya. I dropped it because I saw what was printed under the fondant.

Mom (6:30 AM): I have the trash bag in my garage freezer. Bring Rhett. Do not tell Bev you are coming here.

My thumb froze on the glass screen. My heart began to hammer against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I saw what was printed under the fondant.

My mind raced backward to the party beneath the pergola. Beverly had insisted on handling the cake herself. She had taken our sealed clinic envelope—the envelope containing the official gender result and the donor confirmation paperwork from the fertility clinic—and delivered it to her personal friend, Doie, at Doie’s Custom Bakery.

Bev had forbidden anyone, even the caterers, from going near the kitchen. She had kept the bakery box locked in her pantry until four o'clock, carrying it out herself while my mother followed behind her.

And when my mother had lifted the lid of the box and looked beneath the fondant, she hadn't smiled.

She had looked at Bev. Bev had looked back. And then my mother had thrown her body over the cake, destroying it before anyone else could read what was written on the sugar sheet.