Ava lifted the car seat a fraction — not high, not theatrical, only enough that the sleeping infant became visible to the front rows, to the bridal party, to the man in the black tuxedo who had spent nine months learning how not to look at what he had made.
"You've had nine months."
Madison's breath left her in a single broken syllable.
"Nine months?"
Daniel stepped half a pace toward her and stopped, as if the carpet between them had become a border he was no longer authorized to cross.
"I can explain."
Ava's platinum hair caught a blade of stained-glass light. Her emerald dress looked suddenly less like an interruption than like a verdict. She spoke the next sentence into the hush of two hundred people who would remember it longer than any hymn.
"Start with why your son wasn't invited to his father's wedding."