Page 83 of Halo

The baby shower is a whirl of tissue paper and squeals. We laugh our way through measuring Rachel's belly with ribbon—a game requested by the expectant mom herself … although she loses all enthusiasm the moment she realizes her ribbon is several inches too short.

Rachel receives nearly every gift on her registry, graciously accepting each one as the room erupts into oohs, ahhs, and the obligatory, ‘Oh, you’ll use that every day.’ Tears are shed when she unfolds a handmade quilt my mother stitched from pieces of her baby blanket and Matt's, and by the time the last gift is opened, it's safe to say we've gifted enough diapers to keep this baby's behind clean and dry through at least their first birthday.

Gradually, the afternoon dissolves into smaller conversations of men being men in the delivery room, epidural horror stories, and bizarre non-food cravings. Gift bags are gathered, leftovers are wrapped, and clusters of women drift toward the front porch with hugs and promises to ‘do lunch soon’.

While clearing empty plates, I pause, catching two of my mother's friends whispering to one another around the corner.

“Did you see the little ribbon rosettes on the party favors? Sweet Leah sewed every single one of those by hand.”

“Such a lovely touch.”

“That girl is just like her mother. The picture of hospitality.”

“It's a shame.”

They lower their voices, mouthing most of their words.

“You'd think someone who can make a room feel so welcoming would’ve done the same for her own home.”

A soft scoff.

“Her poor parents must be so heartbroken about what happened.”

“And don't forget about poor Declan.”

“Oh, that boy has been in love with her for years.”

“Gosh, and after he stuck by her side through cancer …”

“I heard at the prayer meeting Thursday night that Declan is trying to win back her heart back. It's like the modern-day story Hosea.”

Wow. That's a new one.

Apparently, I'm Gomer, the woman God called Hosea to marry despite her repeated unfaithfulness.

Their words find the same bruises they always do. I never set out to become the disappointment, the cautionary tale, the whispered prayer request. Before they can sink any deeper, I turn away and busy myself with cleaning.

I bend to scoop another armful of pastel tissue paper from the living room floor when I hear the familiar rumble of my brother’s SUV pulling into the driveway. Moments later, he's walking through the front door.

“Perfect timing,” I call out to him.

“Hey, little sis.” Matt wraps an arm around my shoulders in a side hug. “Have you seen my wife?”

“Last I checked, she was organizing diaper boxes by size and brand"

He nods knowingly. “Sounds about right.”

“Are you ready to load up? It's a pretty impressive haul.”

A softness flashes in Matt's eyes. “Really?”

“Really. This baby is already so loved.”

“And spoiled,” he jokes.

“That too.” I giggle. “C’mon. I'll help you pack up.”

Together, we manage to load up the SUV with most of the presents. Rachel stands in the driveway, one hand braced against her lower back as Matt attempts to wedge the stroller between a mountain of diaper boxes and three oversized gift bags.