“Get ready for an intense, gory, and brutally honest tale…Schaefer writes a nuanced and visceral deep dive into horror’s trad wife and influencer categories, in the sinister vein of Tantrum by Rachel Eve Moulton and Youthjuice by E. K. Sathue, infused with the disquieting, grotesque beauty of The Shape of Water by Guillermo del Toro and Daniel Kraus.”
—Library Journal

“Forget flipping through Baby 411, readers are going to need Baby 911 after meeting the newborn at the sweet, succulent heart of Saratoga Schaefer’s surprisingly tender — and stunningly stomach-turning — new novel Trad Wife. A Rosemary’s Baby for our modern social media mindset, no IG filter can rinse the blood-soaked body horror off your subconscious once you’re done devouring this beaut of a book.”
– Clay McLeod Chapman, author of Wake Up and Open Your Eyes

“In the tradition of Bret Easton Ellis, Trad Wife takes the domestic dream and rips it wide open, serving up a blood-soaked satire as smart and tender as it is stomach-churning. Deliciously gruesome and surprisingly tender, it’s a razor-edged meditation on losing one’s self.”
—Dawn Kurtagich, Amazon bestselling author of The Thorns and The Madness

I don’t dare look at the pregnancy test.

Not yet. First, I must set up the tripod, adjusting its legs so that it’s the correct height, snapping my phone into the clutch, positioning it perfectly.

I want my reaction to be genuine if it’s good news. I remind myself to think positive thoughts: Worries create wrinkles! Smile instead!

I wouldn’t normally film in our bathroom. It’s a private space, and Graham would be embarrassed, but this is different. Special. Besides, our bathroom is beautiful. It’s new enough that I stop to admire it after washing my hands or, apparently, peeing on a stick.

We redid the downstairs bathroom after we closed on the house, and I told Graham it would be worth the price tag. The sink is made from hundred- year- old reclaimed wood; a porcelain bowl sits atop of it, as if waiting to be filled with colorful fruit, fragrant and shiny. The walls are white wood, and fluffy eggshell-colored towels are neatly displayed on floating shelves. The towels are still warm; I did the laundry earlier today, carefully folding every thing. The bathroom smells of lavender, from the oil diffuser on the counter, and eucalyptus, from the ribboned bundle that hangs from the showerhead, tender green heads resting against the subway tiles.

The plastic test is flat on the sink’s counter, sitting on top of a lace doily I crocheted last year. I recorded a time-lapse video of me making the doily, flaxen hair spilling loosely over sun- kissed shoulders, my face fresh and filter- free; it got over a million views.

Standing behind the tripod that holds my phone, I place both my hands on my flat belly, imagining it swelling, imagining the photos I will take, imagining baking barefoot in the kitchen, flour dusting my glowing skin.

Manifest this, I repeat to myself. Manifest.