My six-year-old nephew jumped onto my stomach, laughing and shouting, “Come out, baby! Hurry!” A sharp pain shot straight through me, and at that moment, my water broke. Witnessing this, my mother-in-law and sister-in-law burst into laughter. In desperation, I grabbed my phone to call my husband. But the very next moment, something terrible happened

I’d been sore for weeks. The kind of soreness people dismiss with a smile because pregnancy is supposed to be beautiful, not exhausting.

My husband Mark had stepped out to grab groceries. “Half an hour,” he’d said, kissing my forehead. He reminded me not to overdo it and told his mother to keep an eye on me.

In the living room with me were Helen—whose gentle voice always sounded slightly condescending—and my sister-in-law Nina, who could switch from friendly to cutting in seconds.

And then there was Owen.

Nina’s son.

He’d been bouncing off the walls all afternoon—running laps, climbing furniture, making loud sound effects like the world revolved around him. At first, I laughed it off. Kids are loud. Kids are impulsive.

But after he slammed into the couch for the third time, hard enough to jolt my body, my patience thinned.

“Hey, sweetie,” I said carefully. “Please be gentle. Aunt Rachel has the baby in her belly.”

He laughed and darted away.

Nina stayed glued to her phone.

Helen smiled into her tea. “He’s just excited. He loves babies.”

I swallowed my discomfort and focused on folding clothes. I’d learned that pushing back against Mark’s family only drained me—and never changed anything.