The Sunday tape measure.

I knew about that.

What I didn’t know was that it never stopped.

Thirty-three years old, and our mother still casually commented on her waist at the shop, in front of brides, masking it with a little laugh that made it sound like hospitality.

That Mom had scheduled two of Chelsea’s embryo transfers around the boutique’s promotional calendar, because the spring trunk show needed Chelsea looking “photographable.”

And when Chelsea quietly objected, Mom sweetly reminded her exactly who was paying the clinic bills.