My baby shower was meant to be warm, simple, and full of people celebrating the new chapter Ezra and I were stepping into. Instead, the moment my sister Megan arrived, dragging behind her the most miserable-looking stroller I’d ever seen—faded, squeaky, lopsided—it felt like the room shifted.
With an exaggerated flourish, she announced loud enough for everyone to hear: “Perfect gift for someone like her. Matches her life exactly.”
A few guests laughed awkwardly. Most froze. My stomach dropped. Megan had a talent for twisting every moment into cruelty, but I hadn’t expected it on a day meant for celebration—eight months pregnant and just trying to keep my head above water.
Before I could respond, Ezra stepped in front of me, calm and steady. Megan scoffed, rolling her eyes. “What are you doing? Checking if it still has wheels?”
Ezra didn’t answer. He crouched, fingers tracing the frame with a focus that silenced the room. Then came a muted click.
“Watch,” he said.
One smooth motion, and the stroller transformed. Crooked frame realigned, basket lifted, wheels snapped into place. What looked broken became sleek, expensive, and flawless. Gasps rippled through the guests. Even I stared, disbelief written across my face.
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