My Daughter’s Baby Shower Wasn’t What I Expected
“Ashley, you can’t wear that,” I said, voice trembling, more from nerves than the winter chill that crept through the window. Ashley stood before me in the hallway, her belly round and prominent beneath a sequined top, her hair blown out in loose, perfect waves. She rolled her eyes so hard I wondered if she saw the ceiling.
“Mom, it’s just a baby shower. Not a funeral.” She was already posting a mirror selfie to Instagram, the phone glinting in her manicured hand. “Besides, this is what everyone wears now.”
I bit my lip and looked out the window. The first snow was falling, soft and relentless, coating the driveway and the mailbox. In the quiet, I heard her heels clicking across the hardwood as she went upstairs to grab her coat. I pressed my hand to my chest. My heart was a fist — tight, aching, and unwilling to unclench.
When I was pregnant with Ashley, I was twenty-two, working nights at the diner, eating saltines to fight morning sickness. There were no showers or parties, just me and her father, scraping by, feeling the weight of responsibility before I even saw her face. Ashley’s world was different. College sororities, TikTok dances, and brunches with friends who called themselves her “tribe.”
She came back down, coat slung over her shoulder. “Can you make sure the gender reveal cake is ready? I told everyone we’d FaceTime at 4.”
“Of course,” I said, trying to smooth the tension in my voice. “But Ashley…”
She stopped, impatient. “What?”
I wanted to ask, Don’t you feel scared? Don’t you wonder what it’s going to be like? But I only managed, “Nothing. Drive safe.”
She left in a flurry of perfume and exhaustion. I stared at the snow, my reflection ghostly in the glass, and tried not to cry.
At the shower, I watched her laugh and pose for photos, friends fussing over her like she was a celebrity. “Look at that belly! You’re glowing!” they squealed, snapping Instagram stories. Her boyfriend Tyler, barely twenty, hovered behind her, sipping a White Claw and looking overwhelmed.
Ashley didn’t seem overwhelmed. She seemed… excited. Carefree. As if this baby was just the next big event in her social calendar. My sister Karen leaned over and whispered, “She’s so young. Do you think she’s ready?”
I shrugged, twisting my wedding ring. “I don’t know.”
Later, after presents and cake, I found Ashley in the bathroom, reapplying lipstick. She caught my eye in the mirror. “Can you not look at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re disappointed.”
I swallowed. “I’m not disappointed. I’m… worried.”
She capped her lipstick with a snap. “I know, Mom. But I’m fine. You always think I’m not, but I am. I want this baby. I’m just doing it my way.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to feel the excitement her friends did, to laugh and pose for photos, to trust that everything would work out. But I remembered diapers and fevers and nights awake, terrified, listening for her breathing in the dark. Did she know what was coming?
On the drive home, snow piled up on the windshield. Tyler drove, and Ashley scrolled through her phone, beaming at comments and likes. I sat in the backseat, clutching the leftover cake, feeling old and out of place. When we got home, I started cleaning up. Ashley went straight to the guest room to nap. I heard her giggle, then the familiar TikTok sound as she recorded another video.
Later that evening, I found her crying quietly in her room, phone facedown on the bed. I knocked. “Ashley?”
She wiped her eyes, startled. “What?”
I hesitated, then sat beside her. I touched her hand. “You can talk to me, you know.”
She looked away. “It’s just… everything feels so big. All my friends are excited for me, but they don’t really get it, you know? And you just look at me like I’m a kid.”
I squeezed her hand. “Ashley, I’m scared for you because I love you. I want you to be ready. But maybe I don’t know how to help.”
She finally looked at me, eyes red. “I’m scared, too. But I want you to be proud of me. I want to be a good mom.”
Suddenly, the distance between us felt smaller. I hugged her, her shoulders trembling. “I am proud of you. We’ll figure it out together.”
Sometimes I wonder: will Ashley find her way, or is she just pretending, like so many of us did? Can we ever really prepare our children for what’s coming, or do we just hold their hand and hope they learn to stand? What would you do, if it were your daughter?