For the first time in weeks, I felt oxygen fill my lungs.
And Veronica? Her smile was faint and forced, the kind that appears when you spill red wine on a white carpet. She muttered something about “the weather” before leaving, leaving a knot in my stomach.
I made myself as small as possible: I stayed in the guest room, cleaned meticulously, and thanked her for every meal. But I felt her gaze following me. She never raised her voice, but her expression made it clear I wasn’t welcome.
Dad, on the other hand, really enjoyed having me there. He would sit by my bed, massage my swollen feet, and reminisce about my childhood. He surprised me with small comforts: a plush pillow, herbal teas, even a stuffed animal for the twins. For a while, I convinced myself that everything would be all right.
Then Dad got sick.
It happened terribly fast: a few days of tiredness, and then he was gone. Just like that. One day she was reading beside me, and the next, I was staring at her empty chair.
I never got a proper goodbye.
Two days after the funeral, Veronica dropped the act. I was still in my pajamas, struggling to swallow a piece of toast, when she walked into the kitchen in silk pajamas, her red lipstick perfectly applied, her heels clicking. She didn’t sit down. She didn’t ask how I was.
She said flatly, “You need to start packing.”
I froze. “What?”
“You have 36 hours,” she said, casually pouring wine mid-morning. “This house is mine now. I don’t want you or your… bastards here.”
My stomach sank. “Veronica, I’m due in two weeks. Where am I supposed to go?”
She shrugged. “Motel? Shelter? Not my problem. But you’re not staying here. I’m not raising anyone else’s babies under my roof.”
I sat up, gripping the counter. “Dad would never have allowed this.”
Her lips curled into a cruel smile. “Dad’s not here. I am.”
Then she grabbed her phone. “Mike? Yes. Come here. We have a problem.”
That’s how I learned about Mike, her boyfriend, a tanned, arrogant man who showed up an hour later strutting around like he owned the place.
“Break down the door,” Veronica said lightly, gesturing toward the guest room. “She shouldn’t be here.”
I called the police. My voice was shaking, but I managed to get the words out: “My stepmother is trying to force me out. I’m 38 weeks pregnant. Please send someone.”
They arrived quickly, arresting Mike before he could touch anything. But I understood the truth: I couldn’t stay there. No job, no savings, no Ethan; I had nowhere to go.
I packed clumsily, my hands so shaky that my clothes kept falling off. The guest room was a mess.
I ended up in a women’s shelter, exhausted, bloated, swallowing back tears. As I dragged my battered suitcase across the floor, something slipped out: a thick manila envelope.
