CHAPTER THREE

The dinner was apparently a celebration.

Father had called it “a small family meal’ to welcome Julie home.”

He hadn’t warned me. No one had. But then again, it was my fault, because as always I was expecting too much from my dad.

I was already seated when they walked in together. Father, Stepmother, and Julie, looking amazing in a red sleek dress.

For one heartbeat I thought I was seeing a ghost.

Then Julie looked over at me, then smiled politely. If you were seeing us for the first time, you would think she liked me, and I understood.

Father didn’t bother acknowledging me. He pulled out Julie’s old chair, the one directly across from mine, and said, “Sit, my dear. You’re finally where you belong.”

Stepmother’s eyes flicked over me. I knew nothing good was going to come out of her mouth. “Claire, you’re not looking very good. Are you ill again?”

Again.

As though the night I was rushed to the hospital four months ago, bleeding and shaking, had been nothing more than a dramatic episode of a mild headache and fever. I didn’t really pay attention to anything she was saying.

I finally found my voice. “When did you come back?”

Julie folded her hands in her lap, perfect posture. “This morning.”

Four months ago I had miscarried.

Four months since I woke up in the hospital with my husband unable to look me in the eyes, and my stepmother’s single text: Take care of yourself.

And now the real bride was home.

Father spoke shortly. “We’ve spoken to the family. Everything will be rectified quietly. The boy never wanted you in the first place; he was only being polite and wanted to save face.”

Stepmother added, sugar-sweet, “You did your duty, Claire. You’ve tried your best. But a marriage needs… feeling. And Julie is ready now.”

I stared at my plate. The rice had started looking like the pills I had to take when I miscarried.

I said, very softly, “I lost a baby for this marriage.”

The place was silent. No one said anything.

Julie’s eyes held no emotion. She didn’t care about all this. Stepmother pressed her lips together the way she did when she was starting to get impatient.

Father exhaled through his nose. “That was unfortunate. But it was very early. Barely anything, really. It was a sign that you weren’t the right one.”

Not the right one.

I felt the laugh rise in my throat again.

Stepmother dropped her spoon, then leaned forward. “Don’t make a scene, Claire. Who knows if you didn’t make that up to gain sympathy?”

“Why would I lie about such a thing?” I asked, shocked that she could even say that.

She smiled a little. “Who knows? You’ve always been a dramatic girl.”

I looked at Julie. “Do you even want him? Do you love him?” Julie lifted her eyes, bright and empty. “I’m sorry you got hurt. But this was always supposed to be mine. I just wasn’t ready, but I am now.”

Father set his knife down. “We’ve arranged a flat for you in the old building. You’ll be comfortable. More than comfortable. Consider it payment for… services rendered.”

Services rendered.

I pushed my chair back, stood up, and dropped the napkin on the table.

“Seems like my time here is up,” I said.

Stepmother rolled her eyes. “Always so sensitive.”

I walked to the door. No one called me back.

I wondered why they ever invited me to these dinners when they could barely tolerate me. Did they want me to see how unloved I was? How I meant nothing to them? To brag about their love for one another in my face?

At the threshold I paused, just long enough to say, “Enjoy your celebration. I hope the kebabs taste like everything you wished for.”

Then I left the room that had never been mine, the family that had never wanted me. I was done seeking love where there isn’t any to offer, at least to me.

Behind me, I heard Stepmother murmur, “Finally. Some peace.”

I didn’t cry until I reached my car.

Then I cried for the years of trying to be enough.