Chapter 1 - The slap
My mother-in-law slapped me at thirty-three weeks pregnant because I told her she could not name my daughter.
Not suggest a name.
Not ask whether we liked one.
Decide.
The baby shower had been going well until Veronica decided the microphone belonged to her.
She had insisted on hosting the party in our backyard because, according to her, “the mother of the father should be allowed to do something important.”
I should have recognized the sentence for what it was.
Veronica never volunteered.
She purchased ownership.
She had paid deposits on the caterer, flowers, balloons, and rental tables despite Daniel and me repeatedly telling her we could afford our own shower.
Every time I objected, she smiled.
“Let me spoil my granddaughter.”
So I let her.
That Saturday, almost forty guests stood around a pink-and-turquoise table while I opened gifts.
Daniel was beside the grill talking to his cousin when Veronica tapped her glass.
Everyone quieted.
She stood.
“I have one more announcement.”
I looked at Daniel.
He looked equally confused.
Veronica smiled at me.
“The baby will be named Vivian Rose Hart.”
The yard became strangely still.
Vivian had been Veronica’s mother.
Rose was Veronica’s middle name.
Daniel said:
“Mom.”
I laughed because I thought she was joking.
“We haven’t announced the name yet.”
She looked offended.
“There is nothing to announce. I already chose it.”
I stared at her.
“We chose our daughter’s name.”
“You haven’t even settled on one.”
We had.
Nora Elise Hart.
Only Daniel and I knew.
Veronica pointed at me.
“I get to decide the baby’s name.”
“You have no right to do that.”
Her face changed.
Then she crossed the distance between us.
Fast.
Her palm struck my left cheek.
I heard gasps.
The side of my face burned.
I did not fall.
She did not hit my stomach.
But my hand went there automatically.
Daniel shouted:
“Mom!”
Veronica swept both arms across the gift table.
Boxes crashed onto the grass.
A wooden decorative crate tipped over.
Tissue paper flew.
Someone screamed.
I stood there holding my cheek.
Then I remembered the video.
I had recorded it almost an hour earlier.
Not because I suspected theft.
I had been filming decorations for my friend Rebecca.
Veronica had walked behind the gift table.
Her older sister Elaine had left her handbag on a chair.
On the recording, Veronica glanced around, opened Elaine’s wallet, removed several bills, folded them into her hand, and slipped them into her skirt pocket.
At the time I had stared at the screen, unsure what I had seen.
I saved the clip.
I had planned to ask Daniel privately after the shower.
Now privacy seemed absurd.
I pulled out my phone.
“Daniel.”
He came beside me.
I opened the video.
His face changed.
“Mom… what have you done?”
Veronica saw the screen.
Then lunged.
“Give that to me!”
Daniel stepped between us and shoved her backward.
She fell onto the grass beside the overturned crate.
Not violently enough to send her flying.
Enough to stop her from reaching me.
I stepped back, shielding my belly.
Then sirens.
A guest had already called 911 after the slap.
Blue and red lights flashed beyond the fence.
Veronica looked toward the driveway.
For the first time all afternoon, she stopped shouting.
Daniel stared at his mother.
I stared at the money still partly visible in her clenched hand.
And Elaine, standing twenty feet away, whispered:
“Veronica?”
My mother-in-law looked at her sister.
Elaine looked at the phone.
Then at her handbag.
May you like
Her face emptied.
“What did you take from me?”
