Chapter 2 - The Sunday Table
The Whitlock family home smelled of lemon Pledge, slow-cooked pot roast, and forty years of unearned certainty.
It sat on an acre of bluegrass in Cherry Hills Village, behind a pair of decorative wrought-iron gates that remained permanently open because Curtis couldn't figure out how to reprogram the solar sensors after the hail storm of 2024. The house was brick, painted a pale biscuit color, with white shutters that didn't shut and a circular driveway designed to make modest cars look like delivery vehicles.
Grant parked our Audi Q5 beside his sister Paige’s beat-up Subaru and Curtis’s pristine Lexus sedan.
Before he killed the engine, Grant turned to me. He was wearing the crisp blue linen button-down I’d bought him for his birthday, his hair neatly combed, smelling of sandalwood cologne. He looked handsome, reliable, and completely blind.
“Look,” he said, reaching across the center console to lay his palm over my hand. “Let’s just keep it positive today, okay? Mom was a little over-enthusiastic about the sign on Thursday, but she meant well. She spent three hundred dollars on that wood carving.”
“I know,” I said. My voice was a masterclass in neutrality. “Custom work is expensive.”
He smiled, visibly relieved, completely misinterpreting my compliance as surrender. “That’s my girl. We’re a team, Maren. We just have to let them feel included. This is their first grandbaby, you know?”
“Second,” I said gently. “Paige had Leo.”
Grant’s smile flickered, a tiny muscle twitching near his temple. “You know what I mean. Leo’s... well, Paige was nineteen, and the guy didn't stick around, and Mom and Dad basically had to raise him. This is different. This is our baby. A Whitlock baby with the family name.”
A Whitlock baby.
Not a Lindqvist baby. Not a human being with my blood, my grandmother’s quiet tenacity, or a future that belonged to her. An asset to be incorporated into the portfolio.
“Let’s go inside,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt.
The front door opened before we reached the third stone step.
Darlene stood in the foyer, wearing a pastel lavender twinset and beige slacks, her silver-streaked hair styled into the buoyant, immovable helmet she had maintained since the Bush administration. She held her arms out wide, her eyes bypassing my face entirely to lock onto my twenty-two-week bump.
“There she is!” Darlene cried, stepping forward to pull me into an embrace that smelled of Chanel No. 5 and butterscotch. “How is my little Darlene Grace doing today? Did she like the pot roast smells from the car?”
I didn't flinch. I didn't lean into the hug, but I didn't pull away either. I remained as pliant and unresponsive as a mannequin.
“She’s kicking,” I said pleasantly.
“Of course she is! Strong Whitlock legs,” Curtis boomed from the living room.
Curtis was seventy-two, with the thick neck of a former college offensive lineman and the permanently red complexion of a man whose blood pressure lived in the danger zone. He stood near the wet bar, holding a tumbler of scotch, wearing a golf polo with a country club crest over his left breast.
In the corner, sitting on the ottoman with her knees pulled up to her chin, was Paige.
Paige was twenty-six, thin, with dark circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. She wore an oversized gray hoodie and chewed on the ragged edge of her thumb. Her eight-year-old son, Leo, was nowhere to be seen—likely parked in the basement with an iPad, which was where Darlene usually deposited him whenever “adult conversations” were scheduled.
Paige caught my eye. She gave a quick, almost imperceptible shake of her head, then looked back at the floral pattern on the carpet.
“Come sit, come sit!” Darlene chirped, ushering us into the formal dining room.
The table was set with Darlene’s wedding china—the Franciscan Desert Rose pattern that had been discontinued twenty years ago. In the center of the table, flanked by two silver candlesticks, was a stack of beige cardstock folders, each bound with a thin pink satin ribbon.
Beside the folders sat a legal pad, Curtis’s gold Montblanc pen, and a large, flat box wrapped in silver foil.
Grant pulled out a chair for me. “Comfy?”
“Very,” I said, sliding into the seat directly opposite Curtis.
Darlene remained standing at the head of the table. She smoothed her lavender cardigan, rested her manicured palms on the edge of the mahogany, and smiled around the room with the practiced benevolence of a CEO addressing a board of directors that she personally owned.
“Well,” she began, her voice musical and clear. “I thought it was important for us to gather before the holiday rush begins. A baby changes everything, and as Curtis and I have always believed, a family functions best when there is clarity, unity, and a shared vision.”
“Hear, hear,” Curtis grunted, taking a sip of his scotch.
Darlene tapped the stack of folders. “I’ve put together a small preliminary roadmap for the next six months. Grant and I went over the broad strokes on Tuesday, but I wanted to make sure Curtis and Paige were aligned, and of course, to walk Maren through the expectations.”
She slid a folder across the polished wood toward me.
The pink ribbon was tied in a neat, symmetrical bow.
I didn't untie it. I simply rested my fingers on the cardstock cover. Printed across the front in an elegant, looping calligraphy font was:
DARLENE GRACE WHITLOCK Arrival Protocol, Support Framework & Care Allocation Prepared by Darlene M. Whitlock
Beside me, Grant shifted. He didn't look at me; he looked down at his own folder, his fingers nervously tracing the edge of the paper.
“Mom put a lot of thought into this, Maren,” Grant said, his tone casual, almost defensive before anyone had even spoken. “With both of us working and your firm having that big downtown project in the spring, we’re going to need serious logistical help.”
“Of course,” I said softly. “Let’s hear the roadmap, Darlene.”
Darlene beamed. She took her seat, picked up her glasses from a gold chain around her neck, and opened her folder.
“First, the nursery,” Darlene said, checking off an item on her legal pad. “Grant mentioned you were thinking about using that secondhand crib from your office friend. Curtis and I have already taken care of that. We’ve ordered the Provence Convertible Collection from Restoration Hardware. It’s being delivered directly here.”
I tilted my head, keeping my expression entirely flat. “Here?”
“Well, yes,” Darlene said, looking at me over the rims of her glasses as if I had asked why grass was green. “That brings us to section two: the postpartum schedule. For the first four months, it makes no sense for you and Grant to be struggling alone in that drafty house in Platt Park. You’ll both move into our guest suite.”
“Our house isn’t drafty, Darlene,” I said mild-manneredly. “We replaced the HVAC system in June.”
“The neighborhood has gone down, Maren,” Curtis interjected, waving his scotch glass dismissively. “Too many renters. Too much street parking. A newborn needs quiet, security, and a yard with mature trees. Besides, Darlene has raised two children. You don't have family here in town.”
“My mother lives in Fort Collins,” I pointed out.
“An hour and a half away,” Darlene countered instantly, her voice dropping into that pitying, slightly wounded register she used whenever my side of the family was mentioned. “And your mother works full-time at the library, dear. She doesn't have the bandwidth. Curtis and I have the time, the resources, and the experience. During the week, you’ll be able to return to work part-time by week six, and I will manage Darlene Grace’s daytime schedule.”
Across the table, Paige made a small, choking sound.
Darlene’s eyes darted toward her daughter like a pair of darts. “Paige? Did you have something to add?”
Paige shrank back into her chair, pulling the sleeves of her hoodie down over her knuckles. “Nothing. Just... nothing.”
“Good,” Darlene said, turning back to me. “Now, regarding the baby shower. I’ve booked the Garden Room at the Denver Country Club for December 12th. Eighty guests. I have the invitations ready for the printer. All we need is to finalize the registry—which I’ve already populated at Neiman Marcus and Pottery Barn Kids—and confirm the formal announcement cards.”
Darlene reached for the flat silver box in the center of the table.
She lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in white tissue paper, was a sample card printed on heavy, cream-colored linen stock with beveled gold edges.
I didn't need to pick it up to read the raised lettering:
Curtis and Darlene Whitlock, along with Grant and Maren Whitlock, cordially invite you to celebrate the anticipated arrival of DARLENE GRACE WHITLOCK
My name was there. Fourth on the list. Tacked on after Grant’s, like an afterthought or an administrative assistant who had organized the catering.
“It’s very traditional,” Darlene said, her voice purring with satisfaction. “I thought we could send them out on Monday.”
Grant looked at me, his eyes pleading, urging me to play the part he had scripted for me. Be reasonable. Say thank you. Let’s not have a scene.
“It’s very thorough, Darlene,” I said.
“Isn’t it?” She smiled, preening. “I knew you’d appreciate the organization. You architects love a plan.”
“We do,” I agreed. “We especially love looking at the structural integrity before we build. Speaking of which...” I reached into my purse, pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook, and clicked my pen. “I was doing some preliminary budgeting for the delivery this weekend, Grant. The deductible on our UnitedHealthcare plan is four thousand dollars.”
Grant’s posture stiffened slightly. “Right. We have that covered in savings.”
“We did,” I said, looking directly at him with clear, unblinking eyes. “Until the three transfers between March and August. The eighteen thousand dollars.”
The temperature in the dining room plummeted ten degrees in a fraction of a second.
Curtis set his scotch glass down on the table with a dull clunk.
Darlene’s hands, still resting on her pink-ribboned folder, went perfectly still.
Grant’s face turned the color of raw dough. “Maren... this isn’t the time to discuss household accounting.”
“Why not?” I asked, looking around the table with an innocent, conversational tilt of my head. “We’re talking about the baby’s budget, aren't we? The nursery furniture, the Country Club deposit, the care allocation? I just wanted to make sure the eighteen thousand dollars Grant transferred to Curtis and Darlene’s account ending in 4108 was sufficient to cover the Provence crib, or if we need to release more funds from our joint account.”
Darlene’s eyes narrowed into slits. The lavender twinset suddenly looked like armor.
“That was a private family arrangement, Maren,” Darlene said, her voice dropping all its musical sweetness, replaced by a low, dry rasp. “Grant was helping his father with some temporary liquidity issues related to the country club bond assessments.”
“Oh,” I said. “Because the memo line on the August transfer said Baby expenses — Mom approved.”
Curtis cleared his throat loudly. “Grant, control your wife.”
The three words hung in the air like exhaust fumes.
Grant didn't flinch at his father's command. Instead, he turned to me, his jaw set, his eyes flashing with the cold, indignant anger of a man caught in a corner who believed he had the divine right to bulldoze his way out.
“Maren, we discussed this,” Grant said, his voice dropping into that low, warning register he had used on Thursday night. “My parents have carried this family for decades. When they need temporary support, we provide it. When they offer to take care of our daughter, we accept it. You don't audit my family at my mother’s dinner table.”
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
The blue linen shirt. The neat haircut. The complete, absolute lack of shame.
He didn't see eighteen thousand dollars stolen from our child’s future. He saw his own money, my money, our family’s security, as a tribute he was obligated to pay to keep his seat at Darlene’s table.
“You’re right,” I said softly.
Grant blinked, caught off guard by my immediate retreat. “What?”
I closed my notebook. I clicked my pen.
I looked at Darlene, whose mouth was still set in a hard, triumphant line, and then at the sample shower invitation resting in its silver box.
“You’re right,” I repeated, letting a small, serene smile touch the corners of my lips. “It’s your family. You have traditions. You have expectations.”
I stood up from the mahogany table, smoothing the skirt of my maternity dress over my bump.
“Where are you going?” Grant asked, half-rising from his chair.
“Just to the powder room,” I said smoothly. “All this excitement is making the baby kick. Please, continue without me. Darlene, the invitations look... very expensive.”
I walked out of the dining room.
May you like
I didn't go to the powder room in the hallway.
I walked quietly down the carpeted corridor toward the basement stairs, where the muffled sounds of a cartoon shootout were drifting through the hollow-core door.
