White roses filled silver vases. Servers carried sparkling water and delicate pastries while luxury cars crowded the circular driveway outside.
My daughter, June, slept against me in a pale-pink wrap.
“Since my son was generous enough to bring you into this family,” Margaret said, smiling directly at me, “I thought the baby should have something to remind her where she came from.”
The room erupted in laughter.
Not nervous laughter.
They genuinely thought humiliating my newborn was funny.
June smelled like milk and baby lotion. I looked down at her tiny face and wondered how someone so innocent had already been judged unworthy by people she had never even met.