Fiona stood over the armchair, her birthday party forgotten, her hand pressed to her chest. In the ten minutes since she had waved me out of her “perfect” family photo, I had done something very simple with my phone. I had posted the picture. Not the one she arranged, the one she didn’t know existed. Earlier that afternoon, before the party soured, Colton’s aunt had snapped a candid photo of me holding Elowen, and in the background, clear as day, was Fiona mid-sentence, pointing me out of the frame while everyone laughed. I had captioned it honestly, describing exactly what had happened, and posted it to the private family group chat that included every relative in the room and dozens who weren’t.

“You didn’t,” Fiona repeated, her voice shaking, holding up her own phone. “Tell me you didn’t put that in the family group.” I looked at her calmly, Elowen asleep against my chest. “I did,” I said. “I only described what happened. If it’s embarrassing to read, imagine how it felt to live it, three weeks after giving birth, in front of everyone.” Her face cycled from pale to red. Because the replies had already started coming in, and they were not the ones she expected. Her own sisters, her cousins, an aunt she had always tried to impress, were responding, and not one of them was on her side.