They Weren’t Hungry. They Were Waiting.
The kitchen lights were already on.
Agnes and Victor sat at the table like they owned the place.
No plates. No coffee. No “good morning.”
Just smirks.
“Finally,” Agnes said, leaning back in her chair. “The princess descends.”
Victor checked his watch like this was a performance that started late. “Twenty minutes,” he said. “Daniel, you need to run your house better.”
Daniel’s voice changed instantly—from rage to obedience. “I’m trying, Dad. She’s difficult.”
His sister Lauren was there too, by the counter. Arms folded. Eyes down. Silent.
I reached for the pan. The carton of eggs. My hands shook hard enough I almost dropped it.
A wave of dizziness hit—fast and violent. My vision speckled. My ears rang.
My doctor had warned me about blood pressure spikes. About stress. About warning signs.
“Daniel,” I whispered, gripping the counter, “I need to sit down.”
I didn’t even make it to a chair.
I slid to the tile floor, breath shallow, palms sweating.
The room went quiet for one second.
Then Daniel’s boots moved closer.
“Get up,” he said.
“I can’t,” I gasped. “I’m going to pass out—”
Agnes laughed.
Not nervous laughter.
Not shock.
Entertainment.
“Pregnant women act like martyrs,” she said. “She needs to learn her place.”
Victor nodded like it was a reasonable KPI: obedience achieved.
Daniel turned and walked out the back door.
He came back holding something heavy from the yard.
And I understood—too late—that this wasn’t a tantrum.
This was a routine.
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