My name is Melissa, although most people call me Mel. I was expecting our first baby, a little boy, and I had been trying to enjoy every moment of the pregnancy. But alongside the excitement came an ache I hadn’t anticipated.
My mother had died several years before.
There were days when I missed her so intensely that even ordinary errands became difficult. I’d be shopping for groceries and suddenly want to call her about a pregnancy symptom or ask whether she’d experienced the same thing while expecting me.
I’d imagine her holding my son, smiling down at him with her glasses pushed into her hair.
Then I’d remember she would never get that opportunity.
Our baby would have only one grandmother: Levi’s mother, Diane.
Diane could be overwhelming, but she also had a sentimental side. She cried during family commercials, kept photographs from every milestone, and frequently talked about how long she’d waited to become a grandmother.
I wanted my son to have that relationship.
I wanted him to experience the affection and traditions my own mother would never be able to give him.
So when Diane offered to organize my baby shower, I agreed.
There was just one thing I asked.
“Please keep it small. I’d like our parents, siblings, and a few close friends. Nothing elaborate. Just some food, cake, and a relaxed afternoon.”
Diane smiled enthusiastically.
“Of course, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have to worry about anything.”
I added that I didn’t want party games or speeches. Being the center of attention already made me uncomfortable, especially while pregnant.
She assured me she understood.
Two weeks later, I discovered she’d invited nearly forty guests, most of whom I didn’t recognize. She’d changed the restaurant, ordered elaborate decorations, and planned several activities I had specifically asked her to leave out.
I looked over the guest list.
“Diane, I don’t even know most of these people.”
She barely glanced at me.
“They’re my friends, Mel. Everyone is thrilled for me.”
For me.
