Chapter 3 - The Unraveling
When Lauren finally reached the white gift box bearing Molly's handwriting, the temperature in the room seemed to drop a fraction. Molly straightened up so quickly her knees bumped the edge of the coffee table, a hopeful, radiant smile lighting up her face.
"This one's from Molly," Claire announced, stepping in to support her daughter.
Unable to wait a second longer, Molly hurried forward, lifted the lid herself, and pulled out the pale blue blanket with both hands. "I made this for the baby," she declared proudly, her voice ringing clear across the living room.
For a heartbeat, Lauren stared down at the modest yarn creation. Then, her nose crinkled in genuine distaste. She pinched the edge of the blanket between two fingers, holding it up as if it might carry a contagion, and turned it over to inspect the imperfect rows.
"Oh," Lauren muttered, her mouth tightening into a thin, unmasked line of disappointment.
Molly's smile faltered, freezing into a painful, confused expression as she waited for the expected words of gratitude. Instead, Lauren looked around for somewhere to set it down. Spotting an overflowing wastebasket filled with discarded tissue paper and curling ribbons beside the gift table, Lauren let go.
The blanket drifted down, landing squarely on top of the trash.
"My baby won't use homemade junk," Lauren dismissed aloud, turning immediately to reach for the next wrapped box.
For a terrifying second, the room froze. A few guests continued murmuring, while someone let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh, desperately trying to gauge if it was all an elaborate joke.
Then, Mom laughed. It wasn't a booming cackle, but a crisp, chillingly dismissive sound. "She needs to learn not everything she makes is special."
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The blow landed with physical force. Claire felt the familiar, toxic urge rising in her throat—the old instinct to laugh it off, rescue the mood, gather the blanket quietly, and teach Molly how to swallow her tears for the sake of household harmony. She looked down at her daughter.
Molly wasn't crying loudly; silent, heavy tears were streaming down her pale cheeks. She looked up at Claire, her eyes wide with a devastating question: Will you protect me, or will you let them break me?
