When I lost the baby, I was already weak. But my husband said I must have fallen on purpose.

I tried to stand, but the cramping doubled me over. The hospital had sent me home with instructions to rest, to let my body heal, to take the pain medication every 4 hours. Instead, I was defending myself against accusations that made no sense.

Don’t you dare act innocent.” His voice cracked on the last word, splitting between grief and fury. I saw how you looked when Sophia announced her pregnancy. Pure jealousy. You couldn’t stand that she was glowing while you were just what?

The question escaped before I could stop it.

Just what, Ryan?

That’s when Victoria appeared in our doorway like a summoned demon. Ryan’s mother had her own key. Of course, a boundary I tried to establish early in our marriage that had been steamrolled by family tradition. She must have been listening from the hallway, waiting for her cue to join the performance.

She’s always been jealous of Sophia, Victoria hissed, moving toward me with predatory purpose. Look what she’s done now.

I tried to stand again, needing to escape to the bathroom, to anywhere but this room, where the air felt thick with accusation. Victoria’s hands clamped down on my shoulders, pressing me back into the sofa with surprising strength for a woman in her 60s. Her manicured nails dug through my hospital gown, finding the tender spots where four needles had left bruises.

“I’m bleeding,” I whispered as if this obvious fact might penetrate their shared madness. “I need to.”