My baby shower was meant to be easy and joyful—a room full of people celebrating the life Ezra and I were about to welcome. Soft music, pastel decorations, laughter, cake. Nothing complicated.
That atmosphere cracked the moment my sister Megan walked in.
She didn’t just arrive late. She arrived loud—pushing the most battered stroller I’d ever seen. The paint was chipped, one wheel squeaked badly, and the fabric basket sagged like it might give up entirely. She shoved it into the center of the room and announced, far too proudly, “Thought this was perfect. Fits her situation exactly.”
A few people laughed out of pure discomfort. Most went silent.
My chest tightened. Heat rushed up my neck. Megan had always found ways to undercut moments that weren’t about her, but doing this—on a baby shower, with everyone watching—felt deliberate in a way that stung deeper.
Before I could say a word, Ezra stepped forward.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t glare. He simply rested a hand on the stroller like it belonged there.
Megan rolled her eyes. “What are you doing? Seeing if it still rolls?”
Ezra didn’t respond. He crouched, examining the base with quiet focus. The room followed his movement, tension hanging thick in the air. People were waiting for drama. Waiting for anger. Waiting for embarrassment to finish its job.
Instead, Ezra pressed a hidden latch beneath the basket.
Click.
With one smooth motion, he pulled the handle. The stroller unfolded, realigned, and locked perfectly into place. The crooked frame straightened. The seat lifted. The wheels snapped into balance.
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