It would have been excessive, especially since Frederick was too young to understand it, but my mother had always liked being the center of family gatherings.
Then I noticed that several vehicles belonged to relatives who had barely spoken to Amy since our wedding.
Music drifted from the backyard, loud enough to carry halfway down the block.
I could hear laughter, chairs scraping across the patio, and someone calling for another bottle.
I took the cake from the passenger seat, balanced the gift bag against the box, and walked toward the side gate.
The closer I got, the stronger the smell became.
Pulled pork, butter, grilled seafood, spices, and liquor hung in the warm air.
When I rounded the corner, nearly twenty relatives were gathered around folding tables covered with food.
There were platters of seafood, trays of meat, bowls of side dishes, several desserts, and expensive bottles lined up beside red plastic cups.
It looked less like a baby’s birthday and more like a catered reunion.
My mother stood in the middle of the yard wearing a brand-new dress and sparkling jewelry I had never seen before.
She held a bottle of tequila in one hand while relatives laughed around her.
“My son makes excellent money,” she announced as she poured drinks. “He gives it to me so I can treat the family the way they deserve.”
The words stopped me beside the fence.
The monthly transfers were for groceries, utilities, and Frederick’s care.
They were not for jewelry.
They were not for liquor.
They were not for feeding twenty relatives while my wife believed we were trying to control our expenses.
One of my aunts glanced toward the house and asked where Amy was.
Teresa did not lower her voice.
“In the kitchen,” she said. “I ordered her to prepare everything.”
A few relatives shifted in their chairs, but no one interrupted her.
“She thinks she’s fragile just because she had a baby,” my mother continued. “A woman who’s financially supported should earn the food on her plate.”
My grip tightened against the cake box.
Then Teresa raised her cup and spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“In this house, I’m the one who makes the rules,” she declared. “His wife is only good for giving birth and washing dishes.”
No one challenged her.
Not one person stood up.
Not one relative asked whether Amy was all right.
Some looked uncomfortable, but discomfort did not stop them from eating the food my wife had apparently been ordered to prepare.
I stepped backward before anyone noticed me and entered through the rear door.
The kitchen looked like the aftermath of a restaurant rush.
Greasy pans covered the stove.
Dirty plates were stacked across the counter.
Serving spoons, trays, bowls, and cups filled every open surface.
The sink was crowded with heavy pots.
Amy sat on a plastic stool beside it.
She held Frederick against her chest with one arm while scrubbing a large pot with the other.
A dry piece of bread was clenched between her lips because both of her hands were occupied and, as I later understood, she had not been given enough time to sit down and eat.
Her shirt was soaked with sweat.
Her hair clung to the sides of her face.
Her cheeks looked hollow, and her wrists seemed painfully thin beneath the sleeves she had pushed back.
Frederick rested against her shoulder, but something about the way he was breathing immediately frightened me.
His breaths were fast and shallow.
His eyes looked glassy.
The bread fell from Amy’s mouth when she saw me standing in the doorway.
For a second, she did not look relieved.
She looked terrified.
“Connor,” she whispered, “your mother said I couldn’t stop yet.”
The scrub brush slipped against the pot.
“I still have to serve the coffee.”
I set the gifts on the counter and crossed the room.
When I took Frederick from her, heat radiated through his clothes.
I pressed the back of my fingers against his forehead and felt my stomach drop.
His skin was burning.
“How long has he been like this?” I asked.
Amy opened her mouth, but her gaze moved toward the backyard door.
That small movement told me more than any explanation could have.
She was checking whether Teresa might hear her.
I reached for Amy’s hand.
“We’re leaving.”
She did not stand immediately.
Instead, she looked toward the backyard again.
“She’s going to be angry.”
See more on the next page
