Cradle of Lies

Baby Shower

The baby shower was Dorothy’s worst nightmare come to life.

Thirty women crammed into Patricia’s living room, all of them staring at Dorothy’s belly. Touching it. Asking questions. Making comments about how she was carrying, what that meant about the baby’s s*x, whether she looked big or small for eight months.

Dorothy sat in the chair of honor, wearing the largest pregnancy padding she’d bought—third trimester, full term. It made her look ready to pop, which is exactly what eight months pregnant should look like. But it also made her feel like a fraud on display, waiting for someone to notice the truth.

“Open mine next!” Patricia handed her a perfectly wrapped box. “I’ve been so excited about this one.”

Dorothy pulled off the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a tiny white onesie with “Grandma’s Little Angel” embroidered on it. The women all cooed.

“That’s adorable,” Dorothy said, holding it up. The onesie was so small. Newborn size. In six weeks, she was supposed to put an actual baby in this.

“I can’t believe you’re almost done,” Lisa said from the couch. “It feels like just yesterday you told me you were pregnant.”

Eight months ago. Eight months of lying, of wearing padding, of faking symptoms and stealing ultrasounds and avoiding situations where someone might discover the truth.

Eight months of not getting pregnant.

Dorothy had stopped taking pregnancy tests after the fourth month. There was no point. Her period came every month like clockwork, a cruel reminder that her body refused to help her.

“Have you had any contractions yet?” someone asked. “Braxton Hicks?”

“A few,” Dorothy lied. “Nothing major.”

“Just wait. They’ll get stronger as you get closer.” The woman—one of Patricia’s friends—smiled. “Is your hospital bag packed?”

“Not yet. I should probably do that soon.”

“Soon? Dorothy, you’re eight months! What if the baby comes early?”

“You’re right. I’ll pack it this week.” Dorothy made a mental note. Another prop she needed to create. Another piece of the elaborate set she was building.

The gift opening continued. Blankets, bottles, diapers, clothes. A baby monitor. A breast pump that made Dorothy’s stomach turn—how was she supposed to explain not nursing? She’d have to come up with another lie, another excuse.

“When’s your next appointment?” Patricia asked. “Is Jake going with you this time?”

“Next week. And probably not—he’s been so busy with work.” Another lie. Jake had been asking to come to appointments for months. Dorothy kept making excuses about scheduling conflicts, about him not needing to take time off for routine checkups.

The truth was, there were no appointments. Just stolen ultrasounds she printed every few weeks to show progression. The latest one showed a fully developed baby, head down, ready for birth.

Someone else’s baby. Someone else’s healthy pregnancy.

“You must be getting excited,” Lisa said. “And nervous. I remember being terrified before my first.”

“Terrified” didn’t even begin to cover it.

The shower lasted three more hours. By the time it ended, Dorothy had a car full of baby supplies and a pounding headache. She drove home with all of it—evidence of a life she was supposed to be preparing for.

At home, she carried everything upstairs and put it in the nursery Jake had finished last month. The crib they’d assembled together. The changing table. The rocking chair. Everything perfectly arranged for a baby that didn’t exist.

Dorothy stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by tiny clothes and stuffed animals, and felt the panic rising. Six weeks. She had six weeks to figure this out.

Six weeks to find a baby.

The thought didn’t horrify her anymore. It had been months since it first appeared, and now it felt almost… inevitable. She’d tried everything else. Had tried to get pregnant, had imagined faking a stillbirth or miscarriage, had researched private adoptions that would take too long.

But babies were born every day at St. Catherine’s. Babies whose mothers were young and scared and alone. She’d seen it dozens of times over the years—women who came in terrified, who said they weren’t ready, who talked about adoption or about not knowing what to do.

Sometimes those women changed their minds after holding their babies. But sometimes they didn’t.

Dorothy had started paying more attention during her shifts. Watching. Listening. Looking for the ones who seemed most vulnerable. Most uncertain.

It was wrong. She knew it was wrong. But the thought wouldn’t leave her.

“Dot? You home?” Jake’s voice came from downstairs.

Dorothy left the nursery and went down to find him in the kitchen, looking at all the baby shower gifts she’d left on the counter.

“Wow. People went all out.” Jake held up a tiny pair of shoes. “These are smaller than my hand.”

“Your mom’s friends are very generous.” Dorothy leaned against the counter, suddenly exhausted.

Jake set down the shoes and moved to her, his hands going to her belly. To the padding. “How are you feeling? You look tired.”

“I am. Baby showers are exhausting.”

“You should rest.” Jake’s hands moved in gentle circles over the fake bump. “Only six more weeks. Then we get to meet our little one.”

Six more weeks of the lie. Six more weeks to figure out how to produce a baby.

“Jake,” Dorothy said carefully. “Have you thought about what happens if something goes wrong? At delivery?”

His hands stilled. “What do you mean?”

“Just—sometimes things don’t go the way we plan. Sometimes babies come early, or there are complications, or—”

“Dot, you’re scaring me. Did the doctor say something?”

“No. Everything’s fine. I just want to make sure you’re prepared for anything.”

“Prepared for what, exactly?”

Dorothy didn’t know how to answer that. She was fishing, trying to figure out what story she could tell if she showed up with no baby. Stillbirth? Emergency C-section that went wrong? But she’d have to explain why there was no body, no death certificate, no—

“Never mind,” she said. “I’m just being paranoid. Pregnancy hormones.”

Jake pulled her into a hug, careful of the belly between them. “Everything’s going to be fine. In six weeks, we’re going to have a healthy baby. I can feel it.”

That night, Dorothy lay in bed next to Jake, both of them unable to sleep. She was still wearing the padding—she wore it to bed every night now, had gotten used to sleeping with the extra weight.

“Dot?” Jake’s voice was quiet in the dark.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Dorothy’s heart rate spiked. “Okay.”

“Why don’t you ever let me see you anymore? Without clothes, I mean.”

Dorothy went very still. “What?”

“It’s just—we haven’t been intimate in months. And even when we’re just getting ready for bed, you always change in the bathroom. You never let me see you naked anymore.” Jake rolled toward her. “I know your body is changing, but you’re beautiful. You know that, right? Pregnancy is beautiful.”

“I know. I just—” Dorothy’s mind raced. “I feel self-conscious. Everything’s different now. Bigger. Stretched. It’s hard to feel attractive.”

“But you are attractive. You’re carrying our baby. That’s the most beautiful thing in the world.” Jake’s hand found hers under the covers. “I miss being close to you. I miss touching you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I just want you to know—whatever your body looks like right now, I think you’re gorgeous. And when the baby comes, when things go back to normal, I want you to remember that. Okay?”

Dorothy felt tears building. If he saw her without the padding, the whole lie would unravel. She’d been so careful these past months—always changing in the bathroom, wearing oversized pajamas to bed, avoiding any situation where he might see her flat stomach underneath the silicone.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Jake kissed her shoulder. “I love you. Both of you.”

Dorothy lay awake long after Jake’s breathing evened out. She stared at the ceiling and thought about the nursery full of baby gifts. About Patricia’s excitement. About the tiny onesie that said “Grandma’s Little Angel.”

About the young women who came through the maternity ward every week, alone and scared.

About how easy it would be to walk into one of those rooms and take what Dorothy needed.

She pushed the thought away, like she always did. But it was getting harder to push. The darkness was closing in, the deadline approaching, and she was running out of options.

Running out of time.

Running out of everything except desperation.