Pink curtains where my white ones had hung. A crib in the same corner my crib had stood. My shelves, my décor — rearranged and claimed.
“She’s done such a beautiful job,” one of Violet’s friends gushed.
“Perfect for a sweet little girl,” another sighed.
My knees went weak.
“How dare you,” I whispered at first. Then louder: “How dare you use my nursery. For my baby. How dare you think you have that right.”
The room fell silent. Violet’s smile vanished.
She looked me dead in the eye and said, calmly: “It’s not my fault you couldn’t carry a baby, Ruby. Why let the room go to waste? You’re so selfish.”
Her words cut cleaner than any knife.
I collapsed to my knees, sobbing, while a room full of people watched.
Victor rushed toward me, but I shoved him away.
“Pick,” I choked out.
He froze. “What?”
“Pick,” I repeated. “Me or her. Right now.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Said nothing.
The silence was my answer.
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