Brandon lifted it above his head as though he had discovered the funniest secret imaginable.
“Look what I found,” he announced. Then he grinned at his friends. “Our triplets figured out potty training before their own mother did.”
Several people laughed awkwardly. Brandon was not finished. He shook the package dramatically.
“Everybody be careful tonight. Don’t make her laugh too hard or we might have to protect the couch.”
My face burned. I could barely look at anyone. “Brandon, please put that away,” I said quietly.
Instead of realizing he had crossed a line, he rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on.
It’s a joke.” Then he added, “If you’re that embarrassed about it, maybe you should’ve gotten yourself fixed by now.”
Something inside me sank. I had carried his three children at the same time.
My body had endured months of pain, medical appointments, sleepless nights, and recovery.
And somehow, the lasting effects of that pregnancy had become entertainment for him.
Brandon started making another joke. I barely heard it. Because across the room, his oldest friend, Marcus, slowly placed his drink on the coffee table.
Marcus had not laughed. Not once. He stared at the package Brandon was waving around.
Then he looked at me. His expression hardened. Without saying a word, Marcus pushed his chair backward and stood.
