The air inside Elysium Organic Market in the Hamptons was kept at a precisely controlled sixty-five degrees—cold enough to preserve artisanal kale and biodynamic wines, but uncomfortable for anyone not dressed for it. For Sarah O’Connor, eight months pregnant and exhausted, it felt like standing inside a refrigerator.
She shifted her weight from one swollen ankle to the other, her lower back throbbing with that dull, rhythmic ache that had become her constant companion. She pulled the sleeves of her oversized grey hoodie—her husband’s, actually—down over her hands.
It was cashmere, expensive, but to the casual observer it looked like something she might have slept in. Coupled with her three-year-old black leggings and the messy bun held together by a fraying scrunchie, Sarah looked nothing like a resident of one of the most expensive zip codes in America.
To the elite shoppers of Sagaponack, she was invisible. Or worse, she was an eyesore.
She stood in the “10 Items or Less” express lane, holding the hand of her five-year-old son Leo, who was the only thing about her that looked carefully put-together.
He wore a crisp navy polo and khaki shorts, clutching a die-cast vintage Jaguar E-Type with the reverence of a collector.
“Mom,” Leo whispered, tugging her hand. “Can we get the mangoes?”
Sarah glanced at the display nearby: Japanese Miyazaki Mangoes, $45 each.
“Not today, bug,” she whispered back, rubbing her belly where his little sister was currently performing acrobatics against her bladder. “Just the pickles and ice cream.
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