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Since my pregnancy announcement, Daniel and I had been debating baby names. Ezra for boys and Quinn for girls were our final choices after months of consideration.
We wanted a little magic for ourselves by keeping the names confidential until the gender reveal.
Patricia shared them with her bridge group before you could say “oversharing.”
There’s nothing like meeting one of your MIL’s friends at the grocery store and getting a negative lecture about your “eccentric” baby names.
Patricia giggled when I challenged her.
I’m sorry. She said, “I forgot you wanted to keep it secret and everyone was asking!” “Don’t mind Margaret. She intended good. You chose odd names.”
I was really careful when we decided on a gender reveal party.
I had a list of everything I needed to control to make Patricia-proof. It had to be small so I could plan and do most of the work.
One night, I sighed in bed, worrying about everything that could go wrong.
“It would be easier to just not invite her,” I told Daniel.
“She means well,” Daniel replied, linking our fingers. Give her a chance. She won’t wreck a cake-cutting.”
My hubby. Always hopeful. Never giving up on individuals, even if they’ve committed spectacular sabotage.
A meticulously prepared event took place in the backyard that afternoon.
The maple trees diffused soft June sunlight, casting shadows on the elegantly set table.
The edges had pink and blue goodies. I served macarons with beautiful color gradients, cupcakes with small gender-neutral question mark picks, and complementary sparkling drinks.
Cake in the center. A tall white confection that held all our hopes and expectations.
Jenny, my sister-in-law, gave birth.
The cake had white icing, small sugar question marks, and a fun “Boy or Girl?” topper. It was flawless.
For a brief, glorious moment, I thought we could pass this milestone without drama.
Patricia arrived.
