It was black, glossy, brand-new, the sort of oversized luxury vehicle that made a statement in subdivisions where statements mattered. Wendy recognized it instantly because Cheryl had posted it from five angles two months earlier with the caption mommy upgrade loading. The engine cut off. The driver’s door opened. Cheryl stepped out looking as if she had just left a salon rather than recently delivered a child herself. Hair curled. Makeup flawless. Designer diaper bag on one shoulder. Sunglasses perched on her head. She did not glance at Paige.
She walked up the drive, past Wendy, toward the front door as if Wendy were lawn furniture that had been left in the way.
Then she paused, turned slightly, and smiled. “Finally,” she said. “I can have the room all to myself without your constant drama, Wendy. Try not to bleed on the driveway.”
The sentence was quiet. That made it worse. It sounded rehearsed by years.
Wendy opened her mouth and closed it again because the only thing in her throat was humiliation. She shifted Paige’s car seat to relieve strain on her incision and nearly lost her footing on the front walk.
That was the moment tires screeched.