Chapter 9 - The Baptism Invitation
The peace lasted exactly twelve days.
On a Tuesday morning, a thick, vellum envelope arrived in our mailbox. Unlike the box Eleanor had dropped off, this was mailed through the post office with certified delivery, requiring Michael’s signature at the door.
He signed the electronic pad, handed the mailman his stylus, and brought the envelope into the kitchen.
The return address was printed in raised rose-gold foil: *The Parish of St. Jude.*
Inside was a lavish, multi-layered baptismal invitation. Beth had spared no expense. The card was inset with pressed dried baby's breath and tied with silk thread. It announced the christening of *Lilianna Grace Miller*, scheduled for the upcoming Sunday at two o'clock.
Beneath the date, printed in bold, italicized script, were the names of the sponsors:
*Godmother: Eleanor Vance*
*Godfather: Open in Christian Charity to Michael & Anna Vance-Reed*
Michael read the line twice, his eyebrows drawing together in cold disbelief. "She named us godparents on the public invitation?"
"It’s an ambush," I said, feeling a dull ache throbbing behind my temples. "She’s distributing these to the entire congregation, to all our extended relatives, to Dad’s friends. If we show up, she forces a reconciliation at the altar in front of two hundred people. If we don’t show up, she stands before the priest with an empty godparent seat and lets everyone assume we abandoned a child at her baptism."
"It’s worse than that," Michael said, flipping the card over.
Penciled on the back in Eleanor’s sharp, commanding script was a short paragraph:
*“Your father has threatened to take Josh and Beth to court over the Maple Street house. If you do not attend this christening and accept your rightful place as Lilianna’s godmother, I will ensure Robert is completely ruined financially. I have the records from his previous business partnership. Don’t test me, Anna. Show up on Sunday, wear something appropriate, and fix this.”*
I took the card from Michael’s hands, reading the threat twice. Eleanor was no longer just manipulating social pressure; she was actively blackmailing my father to force me into submission. She was willing to burn down my father’s retirement and livelihood just to force a staged photograph of domestic harmony.
"Call your dad," Michael said instantly.
"No," I replied, staring at Eleanor’s handwriting. "Dad has fought enough battles for me. If Eleanor wants to use the church as her stage, then that’s where this ends."
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"Anna, you aren't actually considering going to that baptism?"
"I’m going," I said, looking up at my husband, my resolve hardening like tempered steel. "And for the first time in my life, I am not going there to keep the peace."
