“So this is her fault,” she said, her eyes locking onto me like I had just committed something unforgivable. “You’re choosing her family over your own.”
Daniel tried to de-escalate.
“Mom, that’s not what this is—”
But she didn’t stop.
She never stopped.
Every word became sharper, louder, more personal.
And then she pointed at my stomach.
At my baby.
And something inside me cracked.
“That baby carries our name,” she said coldly. “You don’t get to use him to take my son away from me.”
The room went silent.
My heart pounded so hard it felt like it was pressing against my ribs.
“This baby is not a bargaining chip,” I said, my voice trembling but firm. “And you don’t have the right to talk about my child like he belongs to you.”
For a second—just one second—everything froze.
Then Margaret stood up.
The sound of her chair scraping against the floor felt louder than anything else in that moment.
I barely had time to react.
She moved toward me, fast—faster than I expected—and before I could even process what was happening, she kicked me in the side.
Just below my stomach.
The pain was immediate.
Sharp.
Blinding.