PART 2

I carried Emily to our bedroom and laid her down as carefully as if she were made of glass.

She kept insisting she was okay.

She wasn’t.

One hand stayed pressed against her stomach while her breathing came in short, uneven bursts.

I grabbed my phone and called her obstetrician immediately.

For the first time in months, I didn’t soften the truth.

I told her everything.

The hours Emily had spent standing.

The cleaning.

The stress.

The insults.

The fact that my eight-month-pregnant wife had been scrubbing dishes for four healthy adults while I worked twelve-hour shifts.

The doctor didn’t hesitate.

“Absolute bed rest,” she said. “No lifting. No cleaning. No prolonged standing. No stress. If the pain gets worse, take her to the ER immediately.”

I thanked her and hung up.

Then I sat beside Emily and watched her drift toward sleep.

I’d never seen her look so exhausted.

So defeated.

And the worst part was knowing she’d felt this way inside the home that was supposed to protect her.

As I adjusted her pillow, I noticed a small notebook partly hidden beneath it.

Emily quickly reached for it.

“It’s nothing.”

I looked at her.

“Emily.”

Tears filled her eyes.

Finally, she handed it over.

“I started writing things down,” she whispered. “Not because I wanted revenge. I just needed proof that I wasn’t imagining it.”

My stomach tightened.

I opened the notebook.

Monday, 9:30 p.m.

Teresa said pregnancy isn’t an illness.

Tuesday, 11:15 p.m.

Brittany recorded me washing dishes and said I looked like a maid.

Thursday, 8:40 p.m.

Kayla took my chair and said laziness makes people fat.

Sunday, 7:00 p.m.

Lily spilled soda on purpose and told me, “That’s what you’re here for.”

Each entry felt like another punch to the chest.

Then I turned another page.

And everything changed.

Emily’s face went white.

“I didn’t want you to see that part.”

I read anyway.

Teresa said that after the baby is born, she’ll make sure she’s the one making decisions. She said Ethan doesn’t know how to control his own house.

I frowned.

“What does that mean?”

Emily started crying again.

“Your mom keeps saying I won’t be a good mother. That she’ll raise the baby herself. That if I argue, she’ll tell everyone I’m unstable.”

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

This wasn’t family conflict.

This wasn’t old-fashioned thinking.

This was something else.

They were trying to break her.

I looked at Emily.

“Do you have proof?”

She hesitated.

Then she unlocked her phone.

There were recordings.

Videos.

Messages.

Not because she wanted revenge.

Because she’d reached the point where she needed evidence just to convince herself she wasn’t losing her mind.

I pressed play.

My mother’s voice filled the room.

“When the baby gets here, Emily can either straighten up or leave. But the baby stays. He’s a Carter. Not hers.”

My hands started shaking.

Another recording.

Brittany laughed.

“Record her. Look at her washing dishes with that giant belly. She looks like a detergent commercial.”

Kayla laughed with her.

“Don’t tell Ethan. That idiot thinks his little princess is perfect.”

I felt sick.

For months I’d been working myself into the ground to support people who were destroying my marriage from inside my own home.

I kissed Emily’s forehead.

“Get some sleep.”

Her eyes widened.

“Ethan, please don’t do anything crazy.”

I stood.

“I’m not.”

I looked toward the living room.

“I’m going to do something much worse.”

I was going to make them face consequences.