Marissa Rothsfield parted her icy hair and decorated herself with a pale string of pearls before leaving her home. She smelled half of lilacs and half of housewife gloom (something like twelve-o-clock chardonnay and tile cleaner).

She made a point of routinely appearing at the local department store each Sunday and browsing the mother-to-be section, caressing the printed muumuus with French-tipped nails. She’d move on to the baby clothes and fondle a pale blue onsie, barely large enough to fit her caviar-fed Persian. It was strikingly apparent that she - a post-menopause waif, hard and straight like a coffin nail - was unfit to bear a child. Perhaps it was her wealth, then, that convinced people that even the most unnatural of her dreams could be fulfilled, and she was showered with congratulatory remarks and inquiries about date and gender. On cue, she’d pat her hollow abdomen and bray something inconsistent, illogical, and often nonsensical, that was in return swallowed more graciously than the hors d’oeuvres at her dinner parties - some of which were showers for the nonexistent baby. After making her lavishly lengthy rounds about the store, she always made sure to purchase something - a cradle or blanket - that would ensure her fictitious child was garnished as extravagantly as her dining room. A salesboy would, once again, roll the heavy boxes to her Cadillac and think to himself that he could have earned a college degree in the time that it took for Mrs. Rothsfield to gestate this child.

Alfred Rothsfield was surprisingly unaware of his wife’s imaginary pregnancy. His time was begrudgingly spent at the courthouse, spewing political jargon that would send dollars flying out of a defenseless defendant’s pocket and into his. The idea dawned on him at a boarding school in New Hampshire: he would build his fortune on the misfortune of others. Thus, he decided, this money would furnish his home with velvet upholstery, granite countertops, and a dim-witted wife. That would be an entirely accurate prediction had he not taken a liking to dark leather couches. And so, his kingdom was built on a principle of laissez faire; while he indulged in golf and Bourbon, his subjects, Marissa and her long-haired cat, were free to do as they pleased so long as they positively affected the appearance of the place. Children were eliminated from the equation early on at Alfred’s insistence. There was something utterly ungraceful about sucrose-encrusted sippy cups.

There was a time in which no one saw Marissa; they assumed that her pregnancy was in its final stages and she couldn’t bare to be seen at formal events with her swollen figure and waddling gait. The churchgoers praised the miracle and the doctors scratched their heads. When locals begged Mr. Rothsfield for details, in an apparently modest fashion he insisted that he hadn’t a clue about his upcoming fatherhood - his bewilderment was almost believable, they’d say. Worried by accusations, he finally decided to confront his wife, who had become a recluse to her side of the house. He certainly hadn’t engaged in any child-creating activities with the old crone, so he assumed it must be an affair.

Mr. Rothsfield stormed into his wife’s dressing room, briefcase still in hand. He opened his jowled mouth and raised a fist, prepared to unleash the might of a portly attorney as he opened the door - but, alas, he found a reposed and wrinkled woman holding an infant to her face. He disarmed himself and stood blinking for a moment before Marissa acknowledged his presence. He asked if it was his, to which Marissa retorted: no, he’s mine. More confused silence ensued. Alfred left with a tentative step, deciding instead to root through the mail in search of unwarranted adoption papers. Is it even possible to adopt a child without one’s husband knowing? Regardless, his searches were in vain, for the only mail that came to the Rothsfield house were gluttonous bills and a copy of Weekly Wine.

At last, submitting to the nonsensical nature of his household, Alfred sunk into his armchair and turned the news on half-mute. The local stories were always the same: poor people victimize poor people while the rich shake their heads in pity. Alfred particularly liked to watch the blond, blue-eyed anchorwoman squint in remorse at the tragedy of yet another stabbing in yet another suburban slum. The news is like an ant farm; analogous insects mill about, living and dying, one would assume, for the amusement of the onlooker. The publicity, strangely, never seemed to deter anyone from crime. He was thus opposed to charity - he could feed the ants all he wanted, but they would only want more. Lack is an incurable disease, he thought.

When the anchorwoman began again to twist her face in woe, Alfred turned the volume a little louder. We are anxiously awaiting more information about a missing child. He coughed a bit and rested his feet on the glass coffee table. An amber alert dispatched this morning for the missing James D’Arnold, son of a local family. Blue eyes, caucasian, four months of age. Last seen wearing a yellow one-pieced pajama. If you see a child who fits this description, please contact your local authorities.