Sharon stepped closer. “That baby is the reason my son’s life is being ruined.”

Tyler stood up then, finally—but instead of stepping between us, he said, “Both of you, calm down.”

Both of you.

Even then, he made us equal.

I turned to him, stunned. “Are you serious?”

That was when Sharon grabbed the bowl of lemonade from the table and threw it onto the grass, as if she needed the sound of something breaking. “This family needed an heir,” she shouted. “Not another weak little girl to pamper!”

I stepped back, one hand on my stomach. I should have moved toward the house, toward the guests, toward safety. Instead, I froze for one second too long, because I truly didn’t believe she would go further with so many people watching.

I was wrong.

She lunged forward, grabbed my arm, and shoved me away from the patio table. My sandals slipped on the spilled lemonade. I stumbled backward, missed the step, and fell hard onto the brick walkway.

I will never forget that impact.

The pain tore through my lower abdomen so violently it knocked the air from my lungs. I heard someone scream. Then another voice shouting Tyler’s name. I tried to sit up but couldn’t. Warm liquid spread beneath me, and at first I thought it was lemonade. Then I saw the blood.

There is no panic like the panic of a mother who knows something is wrong before anyone has to say it.

People rushed toward me, but their faces blurred. Sharon stood a few feet away, frozen now, one hand over her mouth, as if she was only just realizing what she had done. Tyler dropped beside me, pale and shaking, saying, “Hannah, stay with me, stay with me.” I wanted to tell him not to touch me—not after months of asking me to tolerate his mother’s cruelty—but all I could say was, “My baby.”