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I swallow. “No. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” she replies with a forced smile.
Sitting back in my seat, I scan the women in our circle, noticing the way they glance at me nervously before looking back down at their Bibles. Ever since my father-in-law was caught in a sex club scandal and arrested for assaulting my brother-in-law’s girlfriend, everyone at my church looks at me as if family scandal is a disease you can catch. As if I was in that sex club with him or I was the one holding down that poor woman as he punched her.
It might not be the same church, but word gets around. If it weren’t for my perfect mother and straitlaced sister dragging me to these meetings, I probably would have stopped coming months ago—or maybe more.
My sister, Juliet, side-eyes me for not paying attention as she shifts in her seat.
“Before we end tonight’s meeting, are there any prayer requests?” the leader of the group says, folding her hands in her lap.
I wince as my mother raises her hand.
“Yes, Mrs. Rockford.”
My mother reaches over my sister’s lap and squeezes my hand as she says, “My daughter, Briar, and her husband, Caleb, are still trying to conceive. It’s been a tough road. If we could bring together the power of prayer for them, we’d be eternally grateful.”
My stomach turns.
The women all nod in unison as the group leader leans toward us with an expression of nerve-grating sympathy. “Absolutely.”
Everyone bows their heads and closes their eyes. I do the same.
But halfway through the prayer, I open them and peer upward at the people around me. While studying each of their somber faces, furrowed brows, and pressed lips, I try to feelsomething. Gratitude, hope, faith, love…anything.
“Amen,” the woman says.
“Amen,” the rest of us reply in unison.
“Thank you,” I add quietly.
After everyone rises from their seats and says their goodbyes, my sister and I make our way to the parking lot first. Our mother has a way of lingering. She loves to strike up conversations with all of the other women, even though most of them are closer in age to Juliet and me.
I feel my phone buzz in the pocket of my sweater, and I pull it out to see the notification.
It’s a fertile day! Get busy!
My fertility tracker likes to make jokes, but I’m not laughing.
“There’s a woman in our PTA who said she cut all sugar and processed foods for six months, and she got pregnant after trying for years,” Juliet says like the haughty know-it-all she is.
I let out a sigh. More unsolicited advice from my older sister.
“Thanks. I’ll think about that,” I mutter flatly.
She shrugs in a way that tells me she’s disappointed with my response. As if I’m not appreciative enough of her gracious benevolence. “Just saying. That stuff is basically poison anyway. No wonder our bodies don’t work the way they’re supposed to.”
My sister drones on, but I tune her out. She and my mother have a tendency to speak around me in a way that I’m not sure they realize hurts. The little comments aboutmybody. The constant complaints aboutmyfertility. The pining and wishing for another baby—a boy this time.
I don’t argue. I don’t speak up. I take it all in stride and sweep it under the rug—as the women in our family so often do.
I track my cycle. I have sex with my husband. I do everything to hold up my side of the bargainfor them.
Caleb and I were really excited for another baby around the time Abigail turned three. We were riding that parenthood high when our lives were filled with toddler milestones and joy with everynewthing having a baby brought. Now, Abby is six and a half and she’s the love of our lives, but, to be honest, the idea of starting over scares me. The high has worn off.
Juliet and I wait by the car as Mom finally emerges, carrying a tray of cookies. She’s wearing a bright smile as she says goodbye to the other women. I wait for the moment when she wipes the grin off her face and says what’sreallyon her mind once she’s out of earshot of the others.
“That woman actually brought up your brother-in-law,” she mutters as she unlocks her car. “How embarrassing. Your husband’s family has become the laughingstock of the whole town. The nerve ofherbringing up your family drama as if her husband hasn’t cheated on her five times in the past decade.”
