Shortly before I was supposed to give birth, my parents drove from Maryland to visit the church I attended in New Windsor, New York.

They were baptized, but not really believers—they only came to the church to spend time with me because I wouldn’t spend time with them otherwise.

It was Saturday, the Sabbath. I always stayed for all three services, and hadn’t missed a single service since I started attending them shortly after I was baptized.

In between services, the church photographer announced that we were going to do a photoshoot.

It was a stereotypical pregnancy photoshoot: with my parents, with my husband, with my hands over my belly in a heart shape, and so on.

The whole time, I was so embarrassed because it seemed like a worldly thing to do. I felt like the church was indulging me and suspected it would backfire on me later if I acted like I was enjoying it or taking it as anything more than just an act.

I knew it was only to pretend to my parents that we were normal.

Unsurprisingly, I never saw those photos once the act was over.