When I came home late from the hospital, my husband slapped me hard and screamed, “Do you know what time it is, you useless b!.tch?

I had turned my head slowly. My father, Arthur, stood near the door. He was a massive man, standing six-foot-four, with broad shoulders that still held the rigid posture of a military career. His hair was cropped close, entirely silver, and his face was a landscape of deep lines and old scars. He was wearing his usual attire—heavy denim jeans, a dark tactical sweater, and leather driving gloves he hadn’t bothered to take off.

The doctor had looked at the towering figure with visible intimidation. “Sir, it appears to be a severe placental abruption. Her blood pressure was dangerously high when she arrived, and her cortisol levels indicate extreme, prolonged physical stress. Her body was pushed far beyond its limits. The physical exhaustion… it triggered the separation. The baby is gone.”

Pushed far beyond its limits.

The words echoed in my head now, hours later, as I lay in the quiet room. Don’t be lazy, Maya. Scrub the floors, Maya. Carry the groceries, Maya. They had worked me until my body broke. They had killed my child.