A pregnant woman

About 45 minutes later she comes back into the room. She has on some kind of fat suit and is wearing sweatpants and a kind of beaten-down shirt.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I’m a pregnant woman,” she says and she lifts up her shirt. She has a fake pregnant belly. “I wanted our costumes to be mother and child, but I struggled at first with how to make that come across, but then I came up with this. A tired-looking looking worn-out pregnant woman.”

“The party will be starting soon,” I say.

“Just a couple more things,” she says. I follow her downstairs where I see something folded up. She goes and grabs it and struggles with it for a bit, her fake pregnant belly not helping, and then finally manages to open it. She looks back at me and says, “It’s hard work being a single mother with another on the way,” she gives her fake belly a smack and laughs. What she opened was a stroller, but a much larger stroller than one for actual babies. I could fit in it.

“Wait, is that for me?” I ask.

“Who else,” she says, and then she whips out her phone. “Now stand there and give me a smile.”

“No way,” I say, “You can’t take a picture of me like this.”

“Even if I don’t there’s no way no one at the party will, so I might as well be the first,” she says, “And come on, it’s all in good fun, remember?

I stand still and wait for the picture, but she says, “That won’t do. I said to smile. When we look back on this night I don’t want to see you looking like a little girl about to throw a tantrum. I want you to look happy to be wearing your favorite dress, and excited to go to the party. Now please smile.”