The drive to the Blackwood estate stretches like pulled taffy, forty minutes of suffocating silence broken only by the twins' soft babbling from the backseat.
I stare out at the Connecticut countryside rolling past—the same stone walls, the same pristine lawns, the same gated driveways I used to know by heart.
"Mama," our daughter says clearly from the backseat, her first real word, and Adrian's hands tighten on the wheel.
"Did she just…" he starts.
"Yes," I say quietly, turning to look at her. "Hi, baby. Mama's here."
The moment hangs between us, this milestone witnessed together but separately, and then Adrian returns his attention to the road, jaw clenched. We don't speak again.
The massive house of Adrian’s parents finally appears through the trees. It’s a monument to old money and older expectations—five generations of Blackwood privilege preserved in brick and marble.
I haven't been here since last Christmas, when I was still desperately trying to pretend our marriage could be saved, when I wrapped presents for Adrian that he barely glanced at.
Adrian hasn't even parked properly when the front door flies open. Margaret Blackwood, seventy-two and still elegant in her St. John knit suit, practically runs toward the car, her arms already outstretched.
"Elena, darling!" She pulls me into a fierce embrace the moment I step out, enveloping me in Chanel No. 5. "Oh, we've missed you so much. When Adrian said you were coming with the babies, I could hardly believe it."
The warmth in her voice, the genuine joy, makes my chest ache. This woman held me through my mother's funeral three years ago, her arms the only thing keeping me upright during the eulogy.
She handled all the arrangements when I couldn't even form complete sentences, called the funeral home, chose the flowers, made sure I ate.
"It's good to see you too, Margaret," I manage, my voice thick.
"You look tired, sweetheart,'" she says, pulling back to cup my face. "Has Adrian been helping with the night feedings? These early months are so exhausting."
Before I can answer, Adrian appears with both car seats, and suddenly nothing else in the world exists for his parents.
"Oh my God," Margaret breathes, her hands flying to her mouth.
Richard Blackwood, usually so controlled, so formal in his three-piece suits even on Saturdays, actually runs from the doorway. His voice cracks with emotion when he speaks.
"My God, Adrian. Twins. Just like you and your brother would have been."
The reference to Adrian's stillborn twin brother makes Adrian go rigid beside me. It's the family wound that never heals, the ghost child they never speak of except in moments like this.
Richard claps his son on the back hard enough that Adrian has to step forward to keep his balance, then turns to me with tears in his eyes.
"You've given us the greatest gift, Elena. The greatest gift. I'm so proud of you both for working through your difficulties."
I freeze, the words hitting me like ice water. Working through your difficulties. They have no idea.
No idea about the separation, the divorce papers still unsigned on my kitchen table, the French lover I was supposed to be with right now. Adrian hasn't told them anything.
I catch Adrian's eye over his father's shoulder, expecting him to correct the assumption, to say something, anything. But he stays silent, watching me with that unreadable expression he perfected during hostile takeovers.
"Thank you, Richard," I hear myself say, the words coming from some autopilot part of my brain that remembers how to be Mrs. Adrian Blackwood.
Adrian's eyes narrow slightly, suspicious of my game, wondering why I'm playing along. I wonder the same thing.
"Stop standing in the yard like strangers," Margaret says, already reaching for the car seats. "Come inside. Linda has prepared all your favorites, Elena."
She ushers us toward the house, practically vibrating with grandmother energy, while Richard carefully carries our son's car seat like it contains the crown jewels.
We enter the foyer, all marble and crystal, the chandelier casting rainbows across the walls.
Everything exactly as I remember—the Monet in the hallway, the fresh flowers on the antique console, the faint smell of lemon polish and old money.
As Margaret bustles around, directing Richard to take the babies to the nursery room, she suddenly stops and takes my hand. That's when her face changes, a small frown appearing.
"Also, sweetheart, I couldn't help but notice… Where's your wedding ring?"
I open my mouth, no lie ready, no excuse prepared. The black lace under my dress suddenly feels like it's burning my skin.
Adrian appears at his mother's shoulder, smooth as silk, his hand gentle on her arm. "It's being repaired, Mom. A diamond fell out and needed replacing."
"Oh, how frustrating," Margaret says, relaxing. "But at least it can be fixed. So many things can't be these days."
That's when I notice it—Adrian's left hand resting on his mother's shoulder, and there it is. His wedding ring. The platinum band I slipped onto his finger seven years ago, still there, still catching the light.
My heart stops. He never took it off. Through everything, the accusations, the separation, the divorce papers, he never took it off. Or did he put it on just for this show?
Margaret links her arm through mine.
"Come, let's get you some tea and you can tell me everything about how you've been managing. Adrian's always so vague when I ask about you. Men simply don't understand the important details, do they?"
As she leads me deeper into the house, chattering about the twins and nursery decorations, I catch Adrian watching us, his hand unconsciously turning the ring I thought he'd thrown away months ago.
The question burns in my throat—why keep wearing it? Why maintain this charade? Why let his parents believe we're still the perfect family when we're anything but?
But I don't ask, because I'm wearing lingerie for another man under my dress, and we're all pretending something today. The difference is, I know what I'm pretending. With Adrian and that ring, I'm not sure anymore.