“It’s Not My Fault You Couldn’t Carry a Baby”
Halfway through the party, Victor cleared his throat and wrapped an arm around Violet.
“We’d love to show you all the nursery,” he announced.
The word hit me like a blow.
The nursery.
Guests murmured excitedly and headed upstairs. Someone brushed past me with a smile.
“Come on, Ruby!”
I followed on numb legs.
The room at the top of the stairs used to be my nursery:
- Walls painted a soft neutral cream “for any baby.”
- A crib I’d once built and then disassembled after the stillbirth.
- Tiny onesies I’d folded and then packed away because I couldn’t bear to see them.
I had locked that door after we lost our child. I couldn’t even glance at it without breaking.
Now it was wide open.
Pink curtains where my white ones had hung. A crib in the same corner my crib had stood. My shelves, my décor — rearranged and claimed.
“She’s done such a beautiful job,” one of Violet’s friends gushed.
“Perfect for a sweet little girl,” another sighed.
My knees went weak.
“How dare you,” I whispered at first. Then louder: “How dare you use my nursery. For my baby. How dare you think you have that right.”
The room fell silent. Violet’s smile vanished.
She looked me dead in the eye and said, calmly: “It’s not my fault you couldn’t carry a baby, Ruby. Why let the room go to waste? You’re so selfish.”
Her words cut cleaner than any knife.
I collapsed to my knees, sobbing, while a room full of people watched.
Victor rushed toward me, but I shoved him away.
“Pick,” I choked out.
He froze. “What?”
“Pick,” I repeated. “Me or her. Right now.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Said nothing.
The silence was my answer.
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