Chapter 3 - The Family Portrait
By week four, the initial frenzy of Sadie’s arrival had settled into a relentless, exhausting routine.
Caleb had gone back to work at the engineering firm, leaving the house at seven in the morning and returning at six in the evening.
My days became a blur of three-hour cycles: feed, burp, change, soothe, pump, repeat.
I rarely showered before three in the afternoon. My life was measured in ounces of milk, wet diapers, and fifteen-minute naps caught on the couch while Sadie slept on my chest.
On a Saturday afternoon in late October, Marjorie hosted a family Sunday dinner at her house in Upper Arlington to celebrate Sadie’s one-month milestone.
The Warren family home was a sprawling, pristine colonial brick house with manicured lawns and photos of Caleb and Brianna lining every wall of the hallway.
When we walked in, the house was filled with twenty people—uncles, aunts, cousins, and long-time neighbors.
"There she is!" Aunt Susan cried out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. "The little princess!"
I held Sadie in her stroller carrier, but within ten seconds of walking through the door, Marjorie had unbuckled her and lifted her out for the room to see.
"Everyone, look!" Marjorie announced, holding Sadie up like a trophy in the center of the living room. "One month old today!"
The relatives crowded around her, cooing and making baby noises.
"Oh my goodness," Aunt Susan gasped, clasping her hands together. "Caleb, she looks more like you than you look like yourself!"
"Right?!" Brianna chimed in from the couch. "We were saying that in the hospital! Clara didn't even get a vote!"
The room broke into light laughter.
"It’s those Warren genes," Uncle Bob declared, sipping his beer. "Strongest blood in Franklin County. My boys looked just like me when they were born, too. The mothers just do the heavy lifting for nine months, but the blueprint comes from the dad!"
More laughter.
I stood near the coat rack, still holding my heavy winter coat, my purse, and the diaper bag.
Caleb was near the kitchen island, laughing with his cousins, holding a bottle of craft beer.
He didn't notice that I was still standing by the door holding three bags.
He didn't notice that nobody had said hello to me.
I walked over to the entry hall closet, hung up my coat, and set the heavy diaper bag on the bench.
"Clara, dear!" Marjorie called out from the living room sofa. "Could you bring Sadie’s burp cloth from the bag? She’s spitting up a little!"
"Sure, Marjorie," I said softly.
I reached into the bag, pulled out the soft flannel cloth, and walked into the living room.
I handed it to Marjorie. She took it without looking up, her eyes entirely fixed on Sadie’s face.
"Look at her smile, Artie!" Marjorie beamed. "She’s getting those little dimples on her left cheek! Just like Caleb had when he was a baby!"
"Actually," I said quietly, my voice barely audible over the chatter of the room. "My mother had a dimple on her left cheek."
The living room went quiet for a split second.
Marjorie looked up at me, blinking in mild surprise, as if she had just realized I was standing there.
"Oh," Marjorie said, her tone smooth and patronizing. "Did she? Well, I’m sure Caleb’s dimples are much more prominent. We have photos of him at six weeks in the family album upstairs. The resemblance is undeniable, dear."
"Yeah, Clara," Brianna added, scrolling on her phone. "You can't fight genetics. She’s a Warren through and through."
I stood there in the center of the living room, surrounded by twenty smiling faces, feeling completely invisible.
"I'm going to go use the restroom," I said.
I walked down the long hallway, past forty years of Warren family history framed on the walls.
There was Caleb at five years old, wearing a little baseball uniform. There was Caleb at sixteen, smiling at his high school graduation. There was Arthur and Marjorie on their wedding day in 1988.
There was not a single picture of my family.
My parents were both dead. I was an only child. I had no sister to hold my phone and take pictures of me with my baby. I had no mother to cook me freezer meals or tell me I was doing a good job.
May you like
I opened the bathroom door, walked inside, and locked it.
I sat down on the lid of the toilet, pulled my knees to my chest, and pressed my hands over my ears to block out the sound of the Warren family celebrating the child I had nearly died to give them.
