"Put this pillow under your dress, Letta! Quickly! People are arriving. How much longer are you going to sit there?" A middle-aged woman stormed into Aletta's room—no knock, no pleasantries.
Lydia wanted that pillow anchored to Aletta's waist. She needed her daughter-in-law to look the part of a pregnant woman.
Living a lie, weaving a web of deception—it all stemmed from one failure: Aletta hadn't provided an heir for the Yusril family. Her husband's family.
"At this rate, I'll be competing with soap opera actresses, Mother." Aletta watched the woman snatch up the prepared pillow.
"Stop complaining. It's your own fault for not giving me a grandchild. Three years is a long time, Aletta. Look at Mrs. Diandra's daughter—pregnant after only two months of marriage," Lydia spat.
She forced Aletta to stand, strapping the pillow on herself. This had been their ritual for months. Ever since Yusril married Yura, a woman he worked with at the factory.
