THE SEVENTH CHAIR
Two weeks after that call, I visited Margaux at her new apartment in the 16th arrondissement, bringing a box of pastries from the shop she liked, hoping to have one honest conversation before things went too far.
Her apartment was three times the size of my studio, large windows looking out toward the distant Eiffel Tower, custom-designed furniture throughout.
Margaux sat on the sofa, one hand resting on her pregnant belly, flipping through a nursery decoration catalogue.
“Margaux, I want to talk seriously about the fifteenth of June,” I opened, sitting down across from her.
“That again?” she sighed, setting the catalogue down. “Camille, I thought this was settled.”
“It’s not settled, Margaux. I just want to ask — is there really no way to move the party? Even just one week.”
Margaux looked at me, her expression a mix of irritation and a pity that bothered me more than anger would have.
“You know, sometimes I think you’re being a little… selfish,” she said, her tone as light as if discussing the weather. “This is our parents’ first grandchild, Camille. Your wedding is… well, you know, all weddings are kind of the same. But a child is only born once.”
“My wedding only happens once too, Margaux.”
“I’m not saying your wedding doesn’t matter,” she said, her voice sharpening. “I’m saying the guest list for the naming party has been confirmed with Le Meurice for a long time. If I change the date, I’ll have to pay a cancellation penalty, not to mention calling over a hundred and fifty guests again. You only have forty-two, it’s easier to move.”
“So the smaller wedding is the one that has to give way, is that it?”
“You always make everything such a big deal,” Margaux said, rubbing her belly gently, her voice growing weary, as though I were the one causing trouble. “I’m pregnant, Camille. I don’t have the energy to argue with you about dates.”
I looked at her, feeling a helplessness rise in my chest — not because she refused, but because of how completely she believed she was right, so much so that she never noticed she was asking me to always be the one who yields, always the less important one.
“Do you know,” I said, my voice trembling slightly, “for twenty-seven years, I’ve always been the one to give things up for you? The bicycle when I was ten, you got it first because you were older. The summer study-abroad trip when I was eighteen, our parents could only afford one spot, and it went to you. Now even my wedding day, you think I should give up too.”
Margaux fell silent for a moment, something flickering across her face that might have been guilt, but it was quickly replaced by her familiar defensiveness.
“I’m not trying to hurt you on purpose, Camille. I’m just doing what’s best for my child.”
“And what about me, Margaux? Who’s doing what’s best for me?”
She didn’t answer that question.
I left the apartment that day, the box of pastries still untouched on the table.
On the way home, I understood that this conversation would change nothing — not because Margaux was a cruel person, but because she had never once, in her entire life, had to learn to see the world from the position of the one always standing behind.
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