Before the guests arrived, I stood barefoot in my kitchen, eight months pregnant and exhausted, trying to frost a pale yellow cake without bursting into tears.
Every muscle in my body ached. My swollen ankles begged for a chair, my lower back felt like it was carrying the weight of the world, and our baby kept pressing beneath my ribs as if reminding me there was still plenty of work left to do.
Even so, I wanted the day to be perfect.
For two full days, I had cooked everything myself. Mini quiches cooled on trays, chicken salad croissants were lined up neatly, colorful fruit cups sparkled in glass bowls, and lemon bars sat beside the cake I’d decorated with tiny yellow flowers.
My mother, Kirsten, stood beside me tying ribbons around folded napkins.
“Hannah,” she said gently, watching me straighten the same serving tray for the fourth time, “it’s already perfect.”
“If my hands stop moving,” I admitted quietly, “I’ll start thinking.”
She sighed because she already knew what I meant.
“About Diane?”
I forced a weak smile.
“I’m waiting for her to show up carrying dinner in a suitcase.”
Mom didn’t laugh.
She had witnessed enough over the past three years to know I wasn’t joking.
Every family dinner I hosted somehow turned into a competition I never agreed to enter.
If I roasted chicken, my mother-in-law arrived with foil-wrapped chicken of her own.
If I made lasagna, she unpacked homemade soup from a thermos.
During Thanksgiving, she proudly placed her own turkey breast beside mine, as if my holiday meal needed adult supervision.
The worst had happened during poker night with Tom’s friends.
I had spent the entire afternoon making homemade pasta. Everyone loved it.
Everyone except Diane.
She opened one of her plastic containers and announced loudly, “I wish I could be that brave. This tastes like it came from a gas station.”
Tom had simply kissed my forehead afterward and whispered, “Ignore her.”
Ignore her.
Those two words had become his solution for everything.
That morning, while I was still arranging the buffet, Tom wandered into the kitchen and immediately reached toward one of the croissants.
I slapped his hand playfully.
“Guests first.”
He smiled until he noticed my expression.
“What’s wrong?”
“Is your mother bringing food?”
His smile disappeared.
“Hannah…”
“Tom.”
“It’s your baby shower. Let’s not start today like this.”
I folded my arms across my belly.
“I’m already starting it pregnant, exhausted, and waiting for your mother to tell everyone my cooking isn’t fit for human consumption.”
“She just has a sensitive stomach.”
“No,” I replied. “She has a sensitive ego.”
Mom quietly carried another tray into the dining room, giving us privacy.
Tom rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’ll talk to her.”
“You always say that.”
“I don’t want a fight today.”
“Neither do I,” I answered. “That’s why I’m asking you to stop one before it starts.”
He hesitated.
“You know how Mom gets.”
I nodded.
“Exactly. She gets rude, and somehow I’m always the one expected to be patient.”
He glanced around at everything I’d prepared.
“Your food looks incredible.”
“Then tell her that when she insults it.”
Before he could answer, the front door swung open.
“Hello, everyone!” Diane called brightly. “The party can officially begin!”
She entered looking as polished as ever.
One hand carried a wrapped gift.
The other held a large insulated tote bag.
The second I saw it, my heart sank.
Tom noticed it too.
She kissed his cheek before turning toward my buffet table.
“Oh,” she said with fake surprise. “Hannah actually made all of this herself?”
“I did,” I replied, resting one hand on my stomach.
“How… ambitious.”
Mom stepped forward immediately.
“Diane.”
“What?” Diane smiled innocently. “I meant that as a compliment.”
“No,” Mom replied. “You didn’t.”
Several guests exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Diane simply smiled wider.
“I can’t help having standards.”
Without another word, she unzipped her insulated bag.
Tom took one hesitant step forward.
“Mom… don’t.”
She ignored him completely.
Out came one plastic container.
Then another.
Then another.
Chicken salad.
Pasta salad.
Fresh fruit.
Each one arranged neatly inside matching Tupperware containers.
She placed every single dish directly beside the food I’d spent two days preparing.
I swallowed my embarrassment.
“Diane… would you mind putting those on the side table instead?”
She blinked dramatically.
“Why? So nobody sees them?”
“So there’s room for the food I made for my own shower.”
Her smile sharpened.
“I simply brought backup. Some people prefer not to gamble with their stomachs.”
A few nervous chuckles rippled through the room.