My mother tugged harder, her face twisting with anger while shouting that I was selfish and ungrateful. When she realized she couldn’t yank the box away, she suddenly let go.
Before anyone could react, she turned toward a decorative arch near the wall and grabbed a heavy iron support rod that had been leaning there.
And then she swung it.
The metal rod struck my belly—and instantly my water broke.
The pain hit so suddenly it didn’t even feel real at first. It wasn’t like the contractions I had read about. It was a deep, crushing impact that knocked the air out of me. I remember screaming. I heard Jessica shouting for someone to call 911. Ryan caught me as I started collapsing.
Warm fluid ran down my legs.
Everything blurred—faces, voices, lights. My mother kept yelling that I was exaggerating and that she barely touched me.
Then everything went black.
When I woke up, I was under bright hospital lights. My throat was dry and my head throbbed. Ryan was sitting beside the bed gripping my hand so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
His eyes were red.
My heart stopped.
“Where’s Liam?” I whispered.
“He’s alive,” Ryan said quickly, his voice shaking. “He’s in the NICU, but he’s alive.”