Somehow, Gwen’s pregnancy turned me into the household chauffeur, cook, and emotional punching bag. Any attempt to push back was shut down instantly with, “She’s pregnant!”—as if those words excused every demand, every insult, and every ounce of disrespect.
A few weeks later, my birthday passed with almost no acknowledgment. The only bright spot was my friend Zoe, who dropped by with homemade cupcakes—my favorite chocolate ones topped with cream cheese frosting. “Save one for me,” I told Mom as I headed out for my part-time shift.
Eight hours later, I came home to an empty box. “Where are my cupcakes?” I asked, even though I already knew. Gwen walked past, rubbing her slightly rounded stomach. “Oh, they were so good. I couldn’t stop myself.”
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