Page 90 of Desperate Games

“I thought maybe you’d like to play tea party? Would that be okay?” Mom asks gently, her voice warm enough to melt ice.

Callie blinks, then nods.

And when she does, I see it—the moment the shyness falls away and my little angel finds her courage.

She steps forward, her tiny shoes padding across the floor, and Mom gestures proudly toward the surprise waiting in the corner.

A miniature play cottage. Painted pink and blue, complete with a front door that actually opens, and a little kitchen inside stocked with pots, pans, and fake food.

Of course.

My parents. Always going over the top.

Callie gasps softly and bolts forward. In an instant, she’s inside, already taking charge like the tiny queen she is.

“Tea!” she declares.

Mom and Dad chuckle as she sets about pouring invisible cups for each of us with the utmost seriousness, her little brows furrowed in concentration.

And when she finishes serving the grown-ups, she lines up the half a dozen brand-new stuffed animals my parents clearly bought for her—and makes sure they get their tea, too.

My throat tightens at the sight.

God. She looks so at home here.

We chat about nothing for a little while. And eventually, Dad goes off to the kitchen to fetch some real food for Callie who asked for a snack a few minutes ago.

“Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, even though I know I don’t have to.

“You’re my daughter, Andrea,” Mom says, tone sharp but her eyes softer. “And I am so proud of you. You were made to be this little girl’s mother.”

“Do you think so? I mean, it’s kind of all at once, don’t you think?” I whisper, hands on my belly, tears in my eyes even as I watch Callie playing happily.

Dad comes back with some cut up fruit, and a Swiss cheese and tomato sandwich cut into triangles with no crusts.

Like he used to make for me.

My stomach rumbles, and he smirks and pulls another sandwich out of nowhere and hands it to me.

“Thanks.”

I start eating.

“You know, sweetheart,” Mom continues, “We’re both so happy about your pregnancy. About Callie. And your marriage. We just don’t want it brushed under the rug like it’s a dirty secret.”

Here it is. The talk about the wedding announcement I’ve been avoiding.

“Ellie, my love,” Dad hedges, his voice deep and measured, his hand curling around hers on the table like it always does.

He looks at her with that mix of devotion and protectiveness that Dad only musters for my mother—the absolute love of his life.

“Andrea might not want a party.”

“Why do you say that?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight-Andrea

My voice is sharper than I mean it to be because I already know what Dad’s saying. What he’s thinking.