To understand the wreckage of the shower, you have to go back four weeks—to a Tuesday night that felt as heavy and stagnant as the air before a summer storm. It was 10:00 PM in our suburban apartment outside of Columbus. The world outside was a hush of distant freeway white noise and the occasional rattle of a neighbor’s window.
I was seven months pregnant, a state that felt less like a “glow” and more like a slow-motion car crash of my own biology. My feet were propped on a mountain of pillows, pulsing with a dull, rhythmic ache that matched the ticking of the kitchen clock.
That’s when I heard it: the sharp, staccato vibration of my mother-in-law’s voice bleeding through Ryan’s phone. Patricia. She didn’t have conversations; she issued decrees.
“I’ve finalized the venue, Ryan,” she barked, her voice echoing with the sterile efficiency of a corporate raider. “The caterer is booked. The invitations are being hand-calligraphed as we speak. Tell Ensley to simply exist. I’ve handled the heavy lifting.”
Ryan glanced at me, his expression a weary blend of filial guilt and exhausted love. “Mom says she’s got it all covered, Ensley. She says you should just… rest.”
