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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