SUGAR-COATED CHAINS AND THE GENDER REVEALS
you didnât even want a gender reveal.
you said, âi donât care what it is, i just want a healthy baby,â and rafe scoffed, âyeah, and i want a kid who doesnât cry every two secondsâdoesnât mean iâm gonna get it.â
it was his idea. the balloons. the drone footage. the champagne truck. the golf club venue he booked with his companyâs name.
and you â standing there like a porcelain doll with a perfect blowout and a hundred strangers watching. youâre not even 23. youâre freshly married, still trying to figure out if you like being called mrs. cameron, and youâre pregnant. tired. swollen. pretending to smile because your husband said this will âlook good for the business.â
they make you and rafe pose with a golf club for the âreveal shot.â you have to swing at a golf ball filled with pink or blue dust.
you miss the first swing.
everyone laughs. not meanly, but it still makes your cheeks burn. rafe leans down to âfix your grip.â his fingers wrap around yours. itâs supposed to be sweet, but he whispers, âstop shaking. itâs just a ball.â
you swing again. the ball explodes in a cloud of blue.
the cheers erupt. confetti cannons go off. champagne is popped.
rafe pulls you into his chest. kisses your cheek.
âa boy,â he says like itâs a promise. âtold you. my firstbornâs a boy.â
and youâbarely a woman yourselfânod with a smile that doesnât quite meet your eyes. everyone claps. everyone thinks itâs beautiful. you wonder how you're going to mother a boy when youâre still growing up yourself.
later, alone in the bathroom, you sit on the edge of the bathtub in your poofy white dress, hand on your belly, whispering,
"iâm sorry you had to be born into all of this. iâll try to make it okay. iâll try really hard."
youâve barely weaned your first baby off nighttime bottles. youâre still in your early twenties, still feel like youâre faking being a wife and a mother, and your body hasnât even bounced back before rafeâs already filling the guest house with florists and photographers.
âitâs not a reveal,â he tells you while flipping through catering options. âitâs a celebration.â
you blink at him across the marble kitchen island, one hand resting on your lower back where it always aches now. âa celebration ofâŠ?â
âof me, baby. of us. of our family.â
he says it with a grin, like itâs something warm. something generous.
but you know what he really means: a celebration of control. of ownership. of having a wife so young and soft-spoken she doesnât protest when he puts her in a dress three months postpartum and tells her to smile for the cameras.
the party is at the house this time â your new home, the estate. rafe planned the whole thing: valet, signature drinks, candlelit backyard, a chef plating microgreens like itâs a Michelin-star meal. your sonâs waddling around in baby ralph lauren, hair gelled like his fatherâs, and rafeâs got him on his hip like heâs showing off a trophy.
âmy boy,â he keeps saying to anyone whoâll listen. âheâs already obsessed with football. natural.â
youâre eight weeks pregnant, nauseous, and trying not to faint in your little ivory slip dress.
the reveal is this grand fireworks display in the backyard, right above the pool. rafe made the call: blue for boy again, pink for girl. heâs already buzzing, grinning, holding a glass of champagne he hasnât sipped from yet.
youâre sitting down, one hand cradling your belly like instinct. your son is curled up in your lap, chewing on a wooden spoon from the catererâs cart.
rafes friends are joking about âround twoâ and asking if heâs ready for another boy.
âoh, i can handle it,â he says, looking toward the fireworks guy. âas long as she gives me another one just like him.â
you smile. a small, tight thing. you donât correct them.
and then the fireworks go off â pink.
someone shouts âitâs a girl!â and everyone claps, but heâs not moving. just staring up at the sky, smile slipping a little. his mini-me, his legacy, his second son dream â gone in one big pink puff.
he finally turns to you. his jaw clenched. his hand presses to your shoulder, squeezing.
âyou sure?â he mutters under his breath.
you look up at him. tired. hormonal. aching. ârafe, the fireworks are already pink.â
he swallows hard. nods. forces a smile again, even if it doesnât reach his eyes.
later that night, when the guests are gone and the baby is asleep in the crib, you catch him standing in the nursery.
heâs staring at the empty pink bassinet.
you slip beside him, still sore and tired and craving sleep.
âsheâs gonna look just like you,â he says finally. âi can feel it.â
and you nod, soft and slow. âyeah?â
âyeah.â he clears his throat. âso⊠no boy clothes this time. no hand-me-downs. she gets all new. sheâs not gonna wear his stuff.â
itâs not a love letter. itâs not a promise. but itâs the closest thing to softness heâs given you in weeks.
you whisper, âsheâs already spoiled.â
you find out youâre pregnant on a tuesday.
itâs summer. the kids are home from school. the house is loud and full of lifeâyour daughterâs been stealing your lipgloss, your oldest son is always rolling his eyes, and youâve barely had a moment to sit down. you feel dizzy when you go to grab towels from the dryer, and by the time you reach the kitchen, youâre clutching the counter and whispering,
but the test is clear. bold little pink lines. pregnant.
you sit on the edge of the bathtub for twenty whole minutes just staring, hand over your stomach. youâre older now. mid-to-late twenties. the kids are old enough to pick up on the tension in the house, old enough to understand the fights, old enough to remember.
you donât know how youâre going to tell them.
you donât know how youâre going to tell rafe.
but rafe finds the test before you can say anything.
he comes home early from a meetingâtie loosened, cigar still tucked behind his earâand finds the bathroom door ajar. and there it is. the test on the edge of the sink like you forgot to hide it.
you hear his voice from down the hall.
he sounds smug. too smug. like he already knows what it means. like he planned this.
when he steps into the kitchen, youâre sitting at the table with a smoothie youâve barely touched.
he holds the test up between two fingers. âgot something to tell me?â
you just look up at him, exhausted. âitâs not a joke.â
a low, rough sound, all teeth. he steps toward you, pulls your chair back just a little so youâre facing him.
âyouâre serious? weâre really doing this again?â
he leans down, hand sliding to your belly. youâre not even showing yet.
âmy pretty little wife. giving me another one.â his voice is sticky sweet. possessive. âand here i thought i was getting too old for this.â
the gender reveal is his idea. again.
this time, itâs a family affair. private jet. private chef. a pastel-colored spread on a white sand beach. the kids are thereâyour daughter in a pink dress, barefoot, your eldest son already over it, arms crossed, refusing to wear the all-white outfit rafe told everyone to wear.
thereâs a giant cake. of course.
you sit next to your daughter, stroking her hair while she talks about what baby names she likes. she wants to help decorate the nursery. she wants a girl.
your son? he hasnât said a word all day.
when rafe cuts the cake and the inside is blue, the cheers go up.
your son⊠just walks away. straight down the beach.
rafe doesnât even notice. heâs too busy shaking hands with the photographer, holding you close with a proud hand on your stomach like heâs showing off a sports car.
âstill got it,â he smirks, kissing your cheek. âyou make me look good, baby.â
you nod and smile for the camera. because thatâs what you do.