Claire held her own baby shower at thirty-one.
Small garden.
No VIP room.
No family compliance lawyers.
No strategic guest placement.
Vivienne had died two years earlier.
Adrian attended.
So did Dad, eighty-nine and using a cane he denied needing.
Claire wore a shawl because the weather turned cool.
When she wrapped it around her shoulders, I froze for half a heartbeat.
She noticed.
“Mom.”
“I’m fine.”
She opened the shawl dramatically.
“Nothing hidden.”
Everyone laughed except Adrian.
Then Claire walked over and kissed my forehead.
History had lost some of its teeth.
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