Marcus actively begged me to skip it.
I was still recovering.
Maya was barely two months old.
Nobody could reasonably accuse me of being difficult for staying home with an infant.
But that was exactly why I went.
I know that sounds backward and stubborn.
But I was profoundly tired of giving up every family event, every holiday, every piece of my history simply because my mother and sister might be there.
I still loved my aunts and cousins.
I still wanted Leo to know his extended family.
I refused to let two toxic relationships become the permanent gatekeepers of my entire bloodline.
So, we packed the diaper bag and went for a couple of hours.
The second we walked through the sliding glass doors onto the backyard patio, the atmosphere shifted.
At least three conversations visibly stopped and changed subjects.
It was almost comical.
Khloe stood across the yard near the grill with my mother.
The moment she saw me carrying the baby carrier, her face stiffened.
She didn’t come over.
I didn’t either.
I greeted my aunts, got Marcus a plate of food, and minded my business.
Then, about an hour later, Khloe intentionally walked close enough to my table that I could hear her.
She loudly made a snide comment to a cousin about how some people get absolutely everything they want in life and still act like wounded victims.
I took a bite of potato salad and ignored her.
A few minutes later, she doubled down.
She said something about how easy it must be to have a perfect, shiny replacement family while other people were left picking up the pieces and rebuilding destroyed lives.
My mother stood right next to her.
She didn’t ask Khloe to lower her voice.
She didn’t tell her to stop.
She gave Khloe that tiny, sickeningly sweet, sympathetic nod she had always given her.
The one that silently said, “Yes, sweetheart. Your pain is the only pain that matters. Keep going.”
I carefully put down my plastic fork.
Then I turned in my chair and looked directly at Khloe.
“Do you want to say something to me directly, Khloe, or are you just going to keep performing for the crowd?”
The yard went silent.
Khloe looked at me with defensive anger flashing in her eyes.
“No. I don’t think talking to you accomplishes anything. You lack empathy.”
I wanted to bring up the vasectomy right then and there.
God, I wanted to.
I wanted to stand and shout, “Does everybody here know your husband lied to you for years and let you inject yourself with hormones while Mom blamed me for your sadness?”
The sentence was on the tip of my tongue.
Loaded.
Ready.
I didn’t say it.
Not because I was some noble saint.
I didn’t say it because ultimately, it wasn’t my secret to explode in front of twenty people eating hot dogs.
And more importantly, because I suddenly felt a little hand tug my shirt.