Chloe never removed her sweatshirt—even in heat. She clutched railings when walking upstairs. She moved stiffly.

On Wednesday, Teresa baked carrot cake.

“Can I have some?” Chloe asked shyly.

“It’s for you.”

Chloe smiled. “My mom used to bake for my birthday.”

“When is your birthday?”

“Last month. I turned nine.”

“Did you celebrate?”

Chloe shook her head. “Vanessa said birthdays waste money.”

Teresa’s heart twisted.

Later that afternoon, Vanessa returned with friends.

“Make appetizers. Open champagne,” she ordered.

She looked at Chloe. “Why are you here? Go upstairs.”

Chloe stood too quickly, winced, and dropped her fork.

“Clumsy child,” one woman laughed.

As Chloe bent down, her sweatshirt lifted slightly.

Teresa saw the dark stain.

That night, while Vanessa entertained guests, Teresa quietly went upstairs.

“Let me see, sweetheart.”

Chloe hesitated, then lifted the fabric.

The wound was massive. Infected. Terrifying.

“How long?” Teresa whispered.

“Eight months,” Chloe said softly. “She pushed me.”

At that moment, Teresa’s phone rang.

Anna was bleeding. She was losing the baby.

Teresa stood frozen between two crises.

If she left, Chloe might die.

She stayed.

She photographed the wound.