Sylvia pointed toward the kitchen door, her finger rigid as a judge’s gavel. “Go.”
I tried. I truly tried. I took two steps and the room tilted. I grabbed the counter, but my swollen feet slid slightly on the tile. Behind me, Sylvia followed, her anger rising the way it always did when she felt challenged.
“I said move!” she barked.
“I can’t,” I wheezed. “Please… call a doctor.”
Her face tightened, ugly with contempt. “Always sick. Always tired. Pathetic.”
Then she shoved me.
Both hands, hard, right in the chest. It wasn’t a careless push. It was the kind of force someone uses when they believe they’re allowed to hurt you.
My balance vanished. My back slammed into the sharp edge of the kitchen island.
The impact stole sound from the world. Pain exploded—first in my spine, then deeper, lower, in a place I couldn’t protect.
I hit the floor. My head struck tile. For a second, all I could do was blink at the ceiling lights swimming above me.
Then warmth spread between my legs.
I looked down and saw red pooling fast against the clean white floor.
“The baby…” The words fell out of me like a prayer that had already failed.