After settling the twins in the nursery room, two pristine white cribs that Margaret had installed the moment she learned about the pregnancy, we make our way downstairs.
I can't stop thinking about what I saw: one guest room. One king-sized bed with its mountain of pillows. One bathroom.
They've put us in one room. Me and Adrien. My mind races with how we'll navigate sleeping arrangements without exposing Adrian's lie.
The formal dining room hasn't changed. The mahogany table gleams under the crystal chandelier, set with the Wedgwood china Margaret saves for special occasions.
Here they arrange Christmas, anniversaries, and apparently, the return of her prodigal daughter-in-law with grandchildren.
I take my seat beside Adrian, our shoulders almost touching, the familiar scent of his cologne making me dizzy with memory.
We're playing the role of a happy couple, and across from us, his parents beam like we've given them everything they've ever wanted—which, I suppose, we have.
Grandchildren. Twins, no less. The continuation of the Blackwood legacy.
"This is perfect," Margaret sighs, her eyes bright with joy. "Just perfect. I've been waiting for this moment since Adrian told us about the pregnancy."
Linda, their maid, serves the soup course—butternut squash, my favorite. Margaret immediately launches into planning mode.
"We'll take the twins every other weekend," she says, her eyes bright with grandmotherly joy. I try to force a smile of agreement as best I can, but my cheeks are already hurting.
Margaret doesn't notice, completely immersed in her grandiose plans.
"You two need time alone to reconnect. Babies are wonderful, but they're hard on a marriage. You need to remember you're husband and wife, not just parents."
Richard nods along enthusiastically. "Absolutely. And we should discuss schools. I know they're young, but the waiting lists for the good ones are years long now."
"Exeter has an excellent early childhood program," Margaret continues, cutting into his bread.
Richard seizes the initiative. "Though Choate is Adrian's alma mater. And for extracurriculars—the boy should learn piano, I think. Or perhaps violin first? Build discipline early."
Adrian and I exchange glances but say nothing. What can we say? That there won't be family weekends? That we won't be choosing schools together?
We're trapped in this fantasy where our marriage still exists, where we're planning a future instead of dividing assets.
"And when they're older," Margaret continues, "we'll do those Europe trips we always talked about—the whole family together. Can you imagine? Showing the twins Paris, Rome, that little vineyard in Tuscany we loved?"
Every plan she makes is another needle in my chest, reminding me of the life we were supposed to have.
The life where Adrian and I grew old together, where our children had one home instead of two, where 'family vacation' meant something real.
Linda brings the main course, and Margaret starts passing dishes. When she gets to the roasted vegetables, Adrian intercepts the platter smoothly.
"Elena prefers the Brussels sprouts with bacon, Mom. Not plain." He serves me from the separate dish without asking, just knowing.
The casual intimacy of it, him remembering this tiny preference after months apart, after everything that's happened, makes my breath catch.
"You remember?" The words escape before I can stop them, too vulnerable, too revealing.
Adrian meets my gaze, and for a moment, something raw flickers between us—regret, maybe, or longing.
"Of course he remembers, dear," Margaret says with gentle surprise. "Adrian is your husband."
The word 'husband' hangs in the air like an accusation. Like a lie. Like a truth I can't escape.
I force a smile, but inside, something shifts. This small gesture, this proof that Adrian paid attention even when I thought he didn't care, unsettles me more than any grand declaration could.
I don't want to feel this warmth toward him, don't want to remember why I fell in love with him in the first place. Don't want to remember the Adrian who knew every little thing about me, who cared about the details.
My phone vibrates with a text. I glance down discreetly.
Henri: "How is the family visit going, ma chérie? The bed feels so cold without you in it."
My stomach twists as I sit at this table, playing happy family, while the man who thinks he's my future has no idea I’m with my actual husband, at my actual in-laws' house, with my actual children sleeping upstairs.
The lies stack on top of each other like a house of cards.
I type back quickly under the table: "Going well, miss you too."
My fingers shake as I set the phone aside.
Here I am, letting Adrian's parents believe their marriage is intact, feeling things I shouldn't when Adrian remembers my preferences, all while lying to Henri about whose family this is, whose children sleep upstairs.
"Elena, you're very quiet," Richard observes. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Just tired," I manage. "The twins haven't been sleeping well."
"You need to let Adrian help more with the night feedings," Margaret says, giving her son a pointed look. "Marriage is a partnership."
"I help," Adrian says quietly, and the lie sits between us because he can't help with night feedings when he's not there, when we live in separate homes, when we're one signature away from not being married at all.
"Good," Margaret says, satisfied. "Because next month is the country club Christmas gala, and we'll all go together. As a family."
Another future event we'll never attend. Another disappointment I'll have to deliver eventually. But not tonight. Tonight I nod and smile and pretend that next month we'll still be playing this charade.
The weight of these tangled deceptions presses down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I'm trapped in a web entirely of my own making, with no idea how to escape without destroying everything.
Margaret's joy at having her family complete. Henri's trust in the woman he thinks I am. The fragile peace Adrian and I have found in co-parenting.
"More wine?" Richard offers, and I accept gratefully, hoping it will dull the edge of guilt cutting through me.
As dinner continues, as Margaret makes more plans for a future that will never exist, I realize I'm trapped. Every smile is a betrayal to someone. Every word is a lie to someone else.
And Adrian sits beside me, wearing his wedding ring.
The twins cry through the monitor, saving me from more planning, more lies, more of this elaborate pretense.
"Oh, the darlings," Margaret coos. "They must be hungry again."
But as we excuse ourselves to tend to them, I know we're just postponing the inevitable—the moment when all these deceptions collide and destroy everything I've been trying to build and preserve at the same time.