Weeks after the wedding; flies settle on the vanilla frosting. Rice softens into the grass. Hors d’euorves rot in the fridge. You take the wedding dress of your mother’s—the one you wore—and you place it neatly in a drawer. You prepare for your honeymoon, a simple week spent in Barcelona. You have never been outside the country. You have never kissed a man before him, and now you feel yourself blossoming into the woman you once dreamed of. You relish the moment your heart bubbled and your hands shook as everyone’s eyes locked on you. When the words ‘I do’ sighed from your mouth—a wish that everyone is present for. You close your eyes, thinking about how many people were there to witness it: your mother, your aunt, your babysitter from when you were a kid, your brother. Your feet are sore from twirling. Your cheeks are plump from smiling. “How pure and sweet,” you overheard a guest saying. “A dry wedding AND they were each other’s first loves! How pure—”

Baby sister goes down to the police station. She wraps a thread around her finger until it turns bloodless. “She hid him in front of my bedroom window for weeks,” sister tells the police officer; her voice does not splinter.

You make a playlist for your first international adventure as a wedded couple.

Love me like you do.

Love is us.

Love conquers.

My love, sweet love.

Your baby sister tells you something’s wrong. But, you’ve been waiting for this moment your entire lie—life. You ask him if it’s true and he laughs. He says he swore that he thought it was your leg he was fondling.

Two months after the honeymoon; he gets a job as a car mechanic. He swears to you he won’t contact his crazy family, since his mother had an episode a year ago and she threatened to kill your family. He starts ‘renovating’ the minivan you bought together: guts out the chairs and the carpet and throws them away before telling you. He starts remodeling the backyard: planting fruit trees and pouring compost tea that smells like feces and urine. You wake up one morning to hear a truck dumping massive boughs of wood on the front lawn. His phone vibrates from a text and you find a stream of messages to his brother. A thread around her finger until it turns bloodless. Your baby sister tells you something’s wrong. But you’ve been waiting for this moment your entire lie—life. You don’t know why she’s convinced that it’s wrong when he invites her to come into your bed after you have sex. He loves her like a sister, you tell her.

Three years after you move out of your mother’s house, you become pregnant. The moment you see the two strips on the test you’re so overcome with joy, you cannot wait to tell the world. A thread around her finger until it turns bloodless. You call up your friend Julia—who you’ve known for a year, you met her on Bumble just to dip your toes into the social scene in this area. She congratulates you and jokes about calling herself Auntie Jules and it makes you so happy you feel like you’ve just drank a bottle of wine. You call up your cousin, you call up your friend you met through your husband’s work, and then you know that the moment is here, the moment you’ve been waiting for your entire childhood. You call up your baby sister and when she doesn’t answer you leave a hurried message: Hi! It’s me! Call me back, I have some news! When your phone vibrates hours later—interrupting an episode of Gilmore Girls—you pick it up to hear her voice. You’ve missed hearing her voice for so long. You haven’t talked since you were kicked out—since you moved out. You’ve missed hearing it so much that you’ve caught yourself playing phrases she’s said as a kid back in your head, her squeaky, wandersome voice.

“Hi. You said you have something to tell me.” Her voice is not squeaky anymore. Her voice is even and calm, colder than you remember.

“I do! How are you doing? Your job going good?” You remember back when you last talked she had been working at a daycare. She had always loved babies, ever since she was little she was obsessed with taking care of her dolls.

“I’m going to have a baby.” Massive pause. A pause so wide it could fill the Grand Canyon.

“Congratulations.” Her voice is flat, and you feel a gap open up in your chest, spreading wide throughout the living room your in. You suddenly notice your apartment has nothing on the walls, why does it have nothing? A thread around her finger until it turns bloodless.

“You okay?” You ask, trying to sound upbeat.

“I’m so happy for you.” She says, tilting her voice to sound cheerful, yet convincing no one. You’ve been waiting for this moment.

“Thanks.” You say, and suddenly wish to end the call. “Well. I’ll talk to you later.” You say, knowing that this will never happen.

“Thanks for calling. Congrats, again.” She says and she hangs up.

Your baby sister tells you that something’s wrong. But, you’ve been waiting for this moment your entire lie—life.

You stand at your sister’s doorstep, your two-year-old daughter, balanced on your hip. The weight of her feels certain and good.

Cars in the driveway. The silver Prius she mentioned she bought. She’s here. She has to be.

You knock once, twice.

“Door!” Your daughter giggles.

Any second now her face will appear in the doorway. She’ll wrap you in her arms, beaming at your daughter.

You wait.

“Mommy?” She puts her head on your shoulder.

You shift your feet.

She will exclaim at how much your daughter resembles you. She will invite you in, fuss over making a salad from her farmers market veggies. You will say that you have to go because of traffic, but she will already have a plate at the table for the both of you.

You wait. And wait. A movement, a sign, anything.

But, you’ve been waiting for this moment your entire lie—life.

Your chest tightens as you knock again.

It begins to sink in that the door is not going to open. A thread around her finger until it turns bloodless.

“Ok honey, let’s go.”

“Nobody home?” She asks when you tuck her safely back into her car seat.

“Nobody home.” Your lie is quiet, a thread pulled too tight to break.