Chapter 1 #2
Downstairs, the house glowed like a showroom of happiness.
White flowers, silver balloons, a long table, children's laughter, my mother in pearls who whispered from the doorway: "Niki, straighten your shoulders—you look like someone dragged you here against your will.
" I straightened my shoulders. Smiled. Lara stood by the fireplace in a red dress.
Thin, smooth, confident, beautiful with that sharp beauty that doesn't ask for space but claims it.
She saw me, gasped, and came over to hug me.
"Niki, you look so..." The pause was short, but I fell into it completely. "...festive. Such a distinguished color."
"Thank you."
"Just here, look."
She took my wrist and pushed the bracelet higher. Her fingers were cool, her nails perfect.
"The wrist looks smaller like this. See?"
"Yes," I said. "Thank you."
"Oh, stop. I'm just looking out for you."
Damien stood nearby, talking to some business partner, but I knew: he heard.
He always heard what he considered important.
He didn't look at us. Maybe that was for the best. Lara hadn't said anything bad.
She'd just helped with the bracelet. She was just looking out for me.
I'd simply heard an insult where someone had offered advice.
Tim sat by the window with a new toy car in his hands, thin, serious, in a white dress shirt he hated with every fiber of his being.
He was six, but sometimes he looked at you so intently, as if childhood were already teaching him to stay silent. I walked over and crouched beside him.
"How's the birthday boy?"
"Fine."
"Is that worse than bad?"
He shrugged one shoulder and glanced to where Damien was lifting Marta so she could reach the balloons.
"Is Daddy staying tonight?"
The question was simple. A child's question. But it hit me like a fist to the gut.
"Of course. It's your day."
"He left after the cake last year."
"He had an emergency at work."
Tim looked at me. Too intently for six years old.
"He always has an emergency at work when you're sad."
I froze. I wanted to say: Don't look. Don't remember. This isn't your burden. But children always pick up what their parents drop between sentences, and they build their future lives from it.
"I'm not sad."
"Mom, I'm not a baby. So don't lie to me like one."
I didn't have time to answer. Damien walked over with Marta in his arms, and Tim immediately sat up straighter. Not happily, the way he used to. Warily. It was almost imperceptible, but Damien noticed. His jaw twitched, his eyes darkened.
"Shirt okay?" he asked.
"Fine."
"Not 'fine'—'good.'"
Tim lowered his eyes. Not from fear. From hurt. And that was worse. The evening moved on. Guests laughed, raised their glasses, wished Tim well.
Lara circled the living room, leaving behind a trail of perfume and small, caring wounds.
"Niki, are you tired? Your face looks so exhausted.
" "Sit on the end—the light's softer there.
" "The cake is amazing—I would've made the filling lighter, but the kids love it.
" Every sentence was wrapped in silk. Every silk left a burn.
And I thanked her. Nodded. Smiled. Because Lara was my sister.
Because we'd always been close. Because she often watched the kids when I couldn't manage.
Because she could be blunt, but not cruel.
I repeated this to myself like a prayer whenever my heart began to sting too sharply.
When the photographer asked us to stand by the staircase, Damien placed Marta between us, Tim in front of him, and Lara positioned herself to the side, slightly behind.
The perfect family. Almost. My husband's palm settled on my waist. That touch used to make my breath catch.
It still did—only now from fear: what if he felt the fold, what if he thought about it, what if he compared me to someone invisible, someone thin, someone light, without the marks of childbirth and sleepless nights.
"Relax," he said, barely moving his lips.
"I'm trying."
"I can tell."
He leaned closer, and from the outside it surely looked tender. A husband whispering to his wife before a family photo. A beautiful house. Beautiful children. A beautiful lie.
"Don't make that face, Niki. You're sabotaging yourself."
The flash hit my eyes. I smiled. Hard. Until my cheeks ached.
After the photo, Tim blew out his candles.
Marta clapped, guests cheered, Damien stood beside his son and looked at him with such pride that my eyes stung.
He placed a hand on Tim's shoulder, whispered something in his ear, and his son, wooden at first, finally relaxed just a little.
There it was—my trap. A man who could flatten me with a single sentence, and that same man—a father, for whose smile my son was willing to forget his hurt.
I slipped into the kitchen, supposedly to check on the tea.
Really, I needed to breathe without witnesses.
I braced my palms against the counter and leaned forward, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
"You're overreacting," Lara said behind me. I closed my eyes. Of course.
"To what?" I asked quietly.
"To everything. To Damien, to Mom, to me. You're like a live wire."
"I'm just tired."
"You're not just tired, Niki. You've let yourself go emotionally. It shows on your face. Men don't like it when home feels like an infirmary."
I turned around. She stood in the doorway with a glass of champagne, beautiful, calm, familiar. My sister. My sister.
"Lara, why do you talk to me like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like I'm a thing that needs to be taken in for repairs."
"Well, honestly, you could use some repairs."
She smiled as if she were joking, then immediately stroked my shoulder.
"Don't be offended. I say it out of love. Damien's a strong man. You can't go soft around men like that. First they tolerate it, then they go quiet, then they start staying late at the office because it's easier to breathe there."