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Eight years into my marriage, and I’d finally stopped needing Cedric to translate. I could understand the thick New York accents of his family and friends all on my own. I thought it meant I had finally made it into his world. Until I saw an iMessage group on his iPad called “Day Ones.” There were twelve people in it. Cedric, the five friends he’d grown up with, and each of their partners. I wasn’t one of them. The latest messages were about a camping trip to the Catskills that weekend. Someone had asked, “Cedric’s not bringing Elara again, right? Every time she’s here, we have to slow down and spell everything out.” The chat flooded with laughing-crying emojis. I flashed back to the last time we’d all gone out. They’d been tossing around slang peppered with Italian, talking about hitting another bar. Thinking the night was over, I’d put on my coat and stood alone by the door. The whole table had erupted in laughter. My face burned, but all I could do was force a laugh along with them. Later, they played Truth or Dare. The questions were all about stupid things they’d done growing up in Brooklyn. I couldn’t answer a single one, so I drank seven shots in a row, until my stomach felt like it was crawling up my throat. When I came back from throwing up in the bathroom, they’d already closed their circle, chattering in that rapid-fire slang I still couldn’t follow. No one had saved me a seat. That night, on the way home, Cedric told me I was too sensitive. He said if I could just keep up with their banter, people would naturally include me. So I practiced. Every day, I mimicked the actors on TV. Even on trips to the corner store, I’d consciously adopt the flat, neutral accent I heard on podcasts. But now, in the group chat, someone had stitched together recordings of my practice sessions. They were passing around one mocking audio clip after another. Chiara, Cedric’s childhood friend, tagged him. “Cedric, seriously, how do you get in the mood at night with her talking like that?” Cedric replied: “That’s why I’m not bringing her. You guys have fun.” I stared at his message for a long time, unable to scroll any further. Then my phone buzzed. A text from Cedric: “Hey, babe. Just landed in Connecticut. Have to take a client to dinner tonight.” “Go to bed early. Don’t wait up for me.” … I replied with a simple, “Okay.” Then I closed the message and put Cedric’s iPad back in the study. The group chat was still buzzing. They’d booked the campsite and were starting to assign tents and divvy up food. Someone asked which tent Cedric was sleeping in. Chiara sent a coy, hand-over-mouth emoji. “Obviously, Ced is bunking in the big tent with the old crew. Who else is gonna watch the fire overnight?” Cedric replied, “Don’t make my plans for me.” Someone immediately jumped in. “Relax, Elara’s not here. She won’t see.” Cedric didn’t deny it. He just sent a screenshot of a Zelle transfer. Two thousand eight hundred dollars. He’d covered the entire cost of the campsite and gear for all twelve of them. I stared at the screenshot, a cold memory surfacing. Half an hour ago, he’d called to tell me the company’s cash flow was tight and asked if I could cover this month’s mortgage. I’d agreed without a second thought. I’d even been worried he was under too much pressure, so I hadn’t told him about my appointment at Mount Sinai that afternoon. The test results were still in my purse. Six weeks pregnant. The doctor had smiled and asked why my husband wasn’t with me. I’d made an excuse for Cedric, explaining that he was away on business and didn’t know yet. Now, I was glad he didn’t. Otherwise, this child might have become just another joke in their group chat. My phone buzzed again. A voice message from Cedric. “Baby, that box of steaks I had you marinate in the fridge—can you whip up another batch for me tomorrow?” “A client wants that Cajun recipe of yours. I’ll swing by Friday to pick it up.” I opened the group chat again. Chiara had just posted a shopping list. The last item read: “Cedric’s on barbecue. His wife’s a decent cook—have her marinate the steaks ahead of time.” Someone added, “She doesn’t have to come, but her cooking does.” A string of “hahaha”s filled the screen. After a long moment, I texted Cedric back: “Got it.” He quickly sent a kissing-face emoji. “You’re the best, babe.” At eleven that night, I heard the key turn in the lock. Cedric walked in carrying a box of Magnolia Bakery cupcakes, my favorite. His shirt carried the faint scent of someone else’s cigarettes. “I thought you were in Connecticut,” I said. He bent to take off his shoes, not looking up. “Client changed the schedule last minute, so I came back early.” “What about this weekend?” “Still have to work.” He said it so smoothly, his eyes not even flickering. I nodded and put the cupcakes in the fridge. Cedric came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. “You’re not having one?” “My stomach’s a little upset.” “You’ve been so delicate lately.” He let me go and switched on the TV. “Oh, right. My mom wants us over for dinner tomorrow.” “She keeps going on about wanting a grandchild. Just let it go in one ear and out the other. Don’t take it to heart.” I touched the report in my purse and asked softly, “Cedric, do you want kids?” His eyes were glued to the game on TV. He answered without looking away. “Yeah. Someday.” “But our kid has to speak proper English. No regional accent.” “Your Southern drawl is pretty thick. We can’t have the kid picking that up.” He even chuckled a little after he said it. I didn’t. I suddenly remembered our wedding day. My parents had flown all the way from Georgia. As we made the rounds, a few of Cedric’s friends started mimicking my dad’s accent, the way he said “folks.” The whole table laughed. My father, not understanding, just thought they were being friendly and kept raising his glass to them. Back then, I’d told myself they were just kidding around. In the years since, I’d worked so hard to erase my own accent. Only now was I willing to admit the truth. They had never seen me as one of them. Cedric fell asleep right after his shower. Lying beside him, I took the report out of my bag. In the lower-right corner was the date of the next prenatal appointment, the one I’d already scheduled. Monday, 9:00 a.m. I had planned to bring him with me. Now, I opened the hospital’s app, canceled the appointment, and booked a new one with the gynecology department.The next day, we went to the Santoros’ for dinner. Cedric’s mother had prepared a huge Italian feast. Nine of the ten dishes were loaded with cream and cheese. The only lighter option, a bowl of roasted vegetables, she pushed toward Cedric. “You’ve been so busy. Eat up.” I lifted a forkful of salad to my mouth, but the moment it touched my tongue, my stomach lurched. I clamped a hand over my mouth and bolted for the bathroom. I heard his mother ask from the dining room, “What’s wrong with her?” Cedric answered for me. “Her stomach’s been sensitive lately. She still can’t handle our food.” His mother muttered something in Italian. “Eight years, and she still can’t eat it. So high-maintenance.” She thought I wouldn’t understand. I turned on the faucet, rinsing the sour taste from my mouth, but I didn’t go back out. A moment later, she was asking about the camping trip. “Chiara’s going too, right?” “Yeah.” “That girl is just lovely. She knows how to talk to people, how to fit in.” She sighed. “If you’d ended up with her, I’d be taking my grandchild to baseball games by now.” The living room fell silent for a beat. I waited for Cedric to defend me. He just gave a short laugh. “Mom, that was a lifetime ago.” “Stop it. Elara might not understand Italian, but she can hear your tone.” They both laughed. I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles white, and slowly lifted my head. The woman in the mirror was pale, her eyes rimmed with red. He knew how cruel the words were. He just didn’t care. After dinner, Cedric’s mother brought out a jewelry box. For a second, I thought it was for me. Instead, she placed it in Cedric’s hand. “Hold onto this for now. You can give it to Elara when she’s actually pregnant.” Cedric shoved the box into his pocket. “She can barely take care of herself right now. Kids can wait.” I lowered my eyes to my stomach. A tiny embryo was already there. Its father didn’t know. Its future grandmother thought its mother was difficult. Before this child was even born, it had been decided he couldn’t have my accent, couldn’t be too much like me. On the drive home, Cedric took a call from Chiara. The car’s Bluetooth broadcast her voice through the speakers. “Did you get the steaks? Everyone’s waiting for them.” Cedric glanced at me, then immediately switched the call to his handset. I asked, “What steaks?” “For a client.” “Chiara’s your client now?” His jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before he frowned. “She does procurement for one of our vendors. Is that a problem?” “I was just asking.” “Why are you always assuming the worst lately?” The light turned red. Cedric stopped the car and tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. “Elara, I’m exhausted from work every single day. The last thing I want is to come home and be interrogated.” I didn’t say another word. When we got home, I dutifully marinated two large containers of steak for him. Cajun seasoning, garlic powder, chili flakes—everything just the way he liked. Cedric tasted a piece and, satisfied, put an arm around me. “I knew I could count on you.” “I’ll try to get back early this weekend to spend some time with you.” I looked at him. “Don’t rush.” He smiled. “See? This is why I love you. So understanding.” Friday morning, Cedric left with the steaks. I stood on the balcony and watched his car pull out of the building’s driveway. Ten minutes later, I picked up my phone and booked a flight to Atlanta. One way. Departure: Monday.After Cedric left, I started to pack. When I’d married him and moved to New York eight years ago, I’d brought three suitcases. We now lived in a two-thousand-square-foot apartment, but the things that were truly mine still couldn’t fill those same three suitcases. I folded my clothes one by one. Tucked in the back of the closet was our wedding album. In the photos, Cedric was lifting my veil, whispering, “From now on, this is your home.” Back then, I’d believed him. I quit my job, left my parents, and followed him to this city. In those first few years, I was so self-conscious about my accent that even ordering from a fast-food counter felt like a performance. At his friends’ parties, they’d trade old New York stories I couldn’t follow, so I’d just smile and nod. His parents found my cooking bland, so I learned to make all kinds of Italian dishes. When my mother got sick, I only dared ask for three days off. Cedric had said the plane tickets were too expensive, and FaceTime was basically the same thing. I put the album back in its place. That afternoon, Chiara posted on Instagram. The first photo was of manicured grass and canvas tents. The second was of Cedric at the grill, his head lowered as he tied an apron for her. The third was the two of them, posing with the steaks I had marinated. The caption read: “Old friends, same old flavor.” Someone in the comments asked who made the steak. Chiara replied: “Secret chef.” No one mentioned me. My food was there. I wasn’t. A few minutes later, Cedric texted me. “Just had a cold sandwich for lunch. It was awful.” “Really craving my wife’s cooking.” He even sent a photo of an empty lunch box to prove his point. I took a screenshot of Chiara’s Instagram post, then deleted it from my camera roll. I didn’t need the proof anymore. That night, my mother video-called me. It was raining where she was, water dripping steadily from the eaves of the porch. “Baby, why do you look so pale?” I held the phone a little farther from my face. “I’ve been on a diet.” “Don’t you do anything foolish.” She paused, then asked carefully, “Are you coming home for Christmas this year?” In the eight years since I’d moved to New York, I’d only been home for Christmas twice. Every other time, Cedric said he had to work, or the tickets were too expensive, or his parents would be disappointed. I never wanted my mother to worry, so I always made excuses for him. This time, I said, “Yes.” My mother froze. “Really?” “Really.” “And I might not leave again after that.” She stared at me through the screen for a long time, as if she didn’t dare ask why. In the end, all she said was, “Just come home.” After we hung up, I went to the hospital. The doctor reviewed the results and asked me one more time, “Are you sure you want to terminate the pregnancy?” I nodded. “I’m sure.” “Does the father know?” “No.” The doctor frowned. “You should really discuss this with him first.” I touched my still-flat stomach. If I had this child, he would grow up at a dinner table unable to understand the Italian his grandparents spoke. Someone would constantly correct his accent. He would watch his father go camping with friends while his mother stayed home, alone. And maybe one day, he would decide that his mother was the one who didn’t fit in, that she was the one who was too sensitive. I wasn’t willing to risk that. “There’s no need.” I signed my name. The procedure was scheduled for Sunday morning. The nurse handed me a sheet of instructions and reminded me that someone had to be there to pick me up afterward. After a moment’s hesitation, I texted Jen, my next-door neighbor. She replied almost immediately: “I’ll go with you.” A neighbor I’d known for six months understood that I shouldn’t be alone. My husband, meanwhile, was miles away, eating the food I had prepared for him and celebrating the fact that he hadn’t had to bring me along. As I was leaving the hospital, Cedric called. The sound of laughter echoed in the background. He covered the phone, his voice hushed. “Baby, are you asleep?” “Not yet.” “I probably can’t make it back tonight. The rain’s too heavy—it’s not safe to drive.” “Okay.” “You’re not mad, are you?” I looked down at the surgical instructions in my hand. “No.” He let out a breath of relief. “I knew you’d understand.” Just before he hung up, I heard Chiara’s voice in the distance. “Cedric, come on, picture time! We’re waiting for you!” This time, I didn’t bother making an excuse for him.

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