I tried to walk. I really did. But the pain in my stomach was like a hot iron twisting inside me.
I stopped near the kitchen island, gripping the granite countertop to keep from collapsing.
“I said move!” Sylvia yelled from behind me.
She had followed me into the kitchen. Her face was twisted into a mask of pure, ugly rage. She couldn’t stand disobedience. She couldn’t stand that I had challenged her authority by trying to sit.
“I can’t,” I wheezed. “Sylvia, please… call a doctor.”
“You lazy, lying little brat!” Sylvia screamed. “Always sick! Always tired! You are pathetic!”
She lunged at me.
She placed both hands on my chest—right over my heart—and shoved.
It wasn’t a gentle push. It was a violent, forceful shove fueled by years of bitterness and cruelty.
I was off balance. My swollen feet slipped on the tile floor.
I fell backward.
Time seemed to slow down. I saw the ceiling lights spinning. I saw Sylvia’s sneering face receding.
My lower back smashed into the sharp edge of the granite island counter.
CRACK.
It wasn’t the sound of bone. It was the sound of impact, deep and dull.
I hit the floor hard. My head bounced off the tile.
For a second, there was only shock. Then, the pain arrived. It wasn’t in my back. It was in my womb.
It felt like something had torn.
“Ahhh!” I screamed, curling into a ball.
“Get up!” Sylvia yelled, standing over me. “Stop acting! You didn’t even hit your head!”
Then, I felt it.
Warmth. Wetness. Soaking through my underwear. Spreading down my thighs.
I looked down.
Against the pristine white tiles of Sylvia’s kitchen floor, a pool of bright, crimson red was expanding rapidly.
“The baby…” I whispered. The horror was absolute. It choked me.
David ran into the kitchen, followed by Mark.
“What happened?” David asked, looking annoyed. “I heard a crash.”
“She slipped,” Sylvia lied instantly. “Clumsy girl. Look at this mess! She’s bleeding on my grout!”
David looked at the blood. He didn’t drop to his knees. He didn’t scream for help.
He frowned.
“Jesus, Anna,” David groaned. “Can’t you do anything without drama? Mark, sorry about this. She’s… she’s having a moment.”
Mark looked pale. “David, that’s a lot of blood. Maybe we should call 911.”
“No!” David snapped. “No ambulances. The neighbors will talk. I just made partner track; I don’t need a domestic incident report.”
He looked at me. “Get up, Anna. Clean this up. Then we’ll go to the urgent care if you’re still bleeding.”
“Urgent care?” I choked out. “David… I’m losing the baby. Call 911!”
“I said get up!” David shouted.
He grabbed my arm and yanked me.
Another gush of blood. The pain was blinding now.
I realized then, with a clarity that cut through the agony, that he didn’t care. He didn’t love me. He didn’t love our child. He loved his image. He loved his control.
I wasn’t a person to him. I was a prop.
And my prop was broken.
I reached into my apron pocket with a trembling hand. My phone. I needed my phone.
“I’m calling the police,” I sobbed.
David saw the screen light up. His eyes went black.
“Give me that!”
He snatched the phone from my hand. He didn’t just take it. He threw it.
He hurled it across the kitchen. It hit the far wall with a sickening crunch and shattered into plastic shards.
“You aren’t calling anyone,” David hissed, looming over me. “You are going to shut up. You are going to stop bleeding. And you are going to apologize to my mother for ruining Christmas.”
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