Chapter 7 - The Thread Snaps
Saturday afternoon arrived with a brilliant, oppressive summer sun beating down on the asphalt as Theo and I drove the three hours to our parents’ suburban home. My heart hammered a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs. I was thirty-three weeks pregnant, my belly swelling prominently beneath a loose floral sundress, and in my hand, I clutched a gift bag containing a soft, plush stuffed bird for my niece or nephew.
When we pulled up to the curb, the scene in the backyard was staggering. A massive white catering tent dominated the lawn, surrounded by dozens of folding chairs, floral arrangements, pastel balloons, and at least ninety people milling about, chatting, and sipping iced tea. It looked like a society wedding.
Theo parked the car, turned off the ignition, and reached across the console to take my hand. His palm was warm, solid, and steady.
“I’m right here,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine with fierce, unyielding loyalty. “Whatever happens out there, we walk through it together.”
We stepped out of the car and walked around the side gate toward the backyard patio. The heavy, sweet scent of barbecue and expensive perfume drifted through the air, mingling with the murmur of a large crowd.
We hadn't taken three steps past the lattice gate when Great-Aunt Fern looked up from the snack table.
Fern was ninety years old, her hair a cloud of white, her eyesight notoriously poor without her thick glasses. She squinted through her lenses, her gaze traveling from my face down to my prominent, thirty-three-week belly.
The plate of potato salad in her hands slipped from her fingers, shattering against the stone patio with a loud, violent crash.
Conversations across the entire patio ground to a sudden, absolute halt. The music playing softly from the speakers seemed to screech to a stop in our minds. Heads turned in unison, eyes locking onto the gateway where Theo and I stood.
Fern didn't care about the broken plate. She didn't care about the sudden silence. With a terrifying, piercing gasp that cut through the afternoon air, she stumbled forward, crossing the patio in a blind rush.
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Before I could even react, Fern grabbed my arm with both of her frail, trembling hands, her fingers digging into my skin with desperate, bone-crushing strength.
“Josie, honey…” Fern choked out, her voice cracking with profound, gut-wrenching grief. Her eyes were wide, brimming with tears that spilled instantly down her wrinkled cheeks. “Oh, dear God… your mother told us you lost her. She told us in March. You lost the baby…”
