“Is it?” I replied, matching her tone. “The only joke here is thinking this baby is a prop you can pass off when inconvenient.”

Her husband, Robert, approached, his brow knitted in confusion. “Jen, what’s going on?”

She shot him a look that could have peeled paint. My sister’s carefully constructed facade was crumbling, and she was scrambling to hold it together with manicured fingers. “It’s nothing, Robert. Just a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?” I echoed, incredulous. “Leaving a newborn on a doorstep with a flippant note is a misunderstanding?”

I could see the crowd leaning in now, morbidly curious, sipping their flutes as though this were just another act in an elaborate play. The tension was palatable, thick as the champagne they were drinking.