Wendy heard the difference like a crack in glass.
From that day forward, the two pregnancies were discussed as if one were a delicate royal event and the other a logistical development. Suzanne bought Cheryl a designer diaper bag before Wendy had received so much as a pack of onesies. Cheryl was asked about her cravings, her energy, her nursery theme, her stress levels, whether she was drinking enough water, whether she needed foot rubs. Wendy was told not to overeat, not to gain too much, not to worry so much, not to “make every little symptom into a crisis.”
When Wendy developed gestational diabetes, Suzanne clicked her tongue and said, “Well, maybe this is your body telling you to slow down.”
When Cheryl complained about swollen ankles, Suzanne drove across town with magnesium lotion and sat massaging them while posting photos captioned taking care of my girl.
Wendy saw every piece of it. She swallowed every piece of it. Pregnancy made her hungry and sentimental and furious in ways she did not always trust. She did not want to become the jealous older sister in the story everyone already expected from her. So she told herself that comparisons were childish and family history did not matter and the real goal was a healthy baby.
By the third trimester, her body began making those decisions for her. Her feet swelled. Sleep became negotiation. Her back hurt. Her blood sugar numbers ruled the day. She monitored food, water, rest, mood. She learned which meals kept things stable and which sent her readings climbing. She learned that stress raised numbers too, which felt like a cruel joke.
Mitchell adapted with her. He started packing lunches the night before so mornings would be easier. He sat through every appointment where he could get away from work. He rubbed her lower back without being asked. When she cried after a difficult endocrinology check-in and told him she felt like a failing science experiment, he kissed her temple and said, “You are growing our daughter. That is not failure. That is labor before labor.”
They had already chosen the baby’s name by then.
Paige.
Simple. Strong. Easy to say. Impossible to turn into a cutesy nickname Wendy would hate.