"It is always the mother's responsibility!" he shouted. "You are weak! A weak vessel produces nothing but dust!"
"Grandfather, please," George interjected, placing a protective hand over mine on the table. It felt like a branding iron. "Don't be so hard on her. Eliza is... fragile. She did her best. It’s not her fault she isn't strong enough to carry a Caldwell child."
He looked at me with sad, pitying eyes—a performance worthy of an Oscar.
"She’s trying to recover," George added, sighing. "We just have to accept that she might never be able to give us what we need."
The table murmured in sympathy—for him.
I sat there, frozen, letting them paint me as the broken, barren victim. I didn't fight back. I didn't scream. I just stared at the candle flame flickering in the center of the table, imagining it burning the whole house down.
The drive home was quiet. The rain had started to fall, slicking the winding roads with a dangerous sheen.
I sat in the back seat. George was driving, with Donna in the passenger seat. She was humming softly, playing with the sapphire necklace around her neck.
"George, slow down," I said, noticing the speedometer creeping up. "The roads are wet."