Rebecca, a five-foot-eleven blonde who isn’t afraid of four-inch heels, stands in front of the neon sign, mocking it with her protruding basketball of a belly as she adjusts the blue bow in her hair and thanks everyone for the gift: a Bugaboo stroller that costs more than my first apartment. She’s a little bitter that her office shower fell on a Monday, which gives me immeasurable satisfaction as I sit on the edge of a too-low couch watching her dance around the conference room like a fucking ballerina, singing “ah ah ah” anytime someone tries to stick a blue bow onto her cashmere sweater.

Weddings trump pregnancies in this group, which is why all my planning has overshadowed hers. Weddings enter you into a new class; a club of women with shiny accessories proving to the world that we’re lovable, while we show off our newly plural life: we finally found a contractor, our friend works there, we watched that episode last night. Babies, however, bring you down at least three notches until you can brag about their accomplishments. Even then, no one wants to talk about them as much as you do.

“This little nugget says thanks, too,” Rebecca continues, pulling the loose sweater taut around her belly, like we’d forget she is pregnant if she didn’t remind us. “My little Halloween baby is very excited to meet you all soon.” Everyone oohs and aahs but the silence between her sentences reveals how little that sentiment is reciprocated. Another thing: Who the fuck wants a Halloween birthday—destined for themed parties every year for the rest of your life?

For most of the shower, I’d been focused on Kiley, our office assistant. She’s a petite girl with mousy brown hair and some freshman fifteen still lingering in her cheeks. She sits in that familiar way everyone has at one point: arms crossed gingerly over her stomach, a subconscious attempt to hide what everyone knows is there. I’ve been watching her stare at the orange and black cookies on the conference table, decorated with Rebecca’s unborn son’s monogram: SMM (the third, obviously). The entire table is covered in other expensively decorated and on-theme processed sugar—doughnut holes with orange filling and brown sprinkles, cake pops shaped like spiders, Rice Krispies Treats topped with sugar ghosts—but Kiley’s only got eyes for the cookies.