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For the first time in weeks, I felt oxygen fill my lungs.
Veronica, though? Her smile was thin and forced — the kind someone gives when red wine spills on a white carpet. She murmured something about “timing” before drifting away, leaving a knot in my stomach.
I made myself as small as possible — stayed in the guest room, cleaned up meticulously, thanked her for every meal. But I could feel her gaze tracking me. She never raised her voice, yet the way she looked at me made it clear I wasn’t welcome.
Dad, on the other hand, cherished having me there. He’d sit beside my bed, massage my swollen feet, reminisce about when I was a baby. He surprised me with little comforts — a plush pillow, herbal tea blends, even a stuffed toy for the twins. For a while, I convinced myself everything would be okay.
Then Dad fell ill.
It happened frighteningly fast — a few days of fatigue, and then he was gone. Just like that. One day he was reading beside me, and the next, I was staring at his empty chair.
I never got a proper goodbye.
Two days after the funeral, Veronica dropped the mask. I was still in pajamas, struggling to swallow a piece of toast, when she glided into the kitchen in silk sleepwear, red lipstick perfectly applied, heels clicking. She didn’t sit. She didn’t ask how I was.
She said flatly, “You need to start packing.”
I froze. “What?”
“You have 36 hours,” she said, casually pouring wine mid-morning. “This house is mine now. I don’t want you or your… bastards here.”
My stomach dropped. “Veronica, I’m due in two weeks. Where am I supposed to go?”
She shrugged. “Motel? Shelter? Not my problem. But you’re not squatting here. I won’t raise someone else’s babies under my roof.”
I pushed myself upright, gripping the counter. “Dad would never have allowed this.”
Her lips curled into a cruel smile. “Dad’s not here. I am.”
Then she grabbed her phone. “Mike? Yeah. Come over. We’ve got a problem.”
That’s how I learned about Mike — her boyfriend — a tanned, arrogant man who swaggered in an hour later like he already owned everything.
“Break the door,” Veronica told him lightly, pointing toward the guest room. “She doesn’t belong here.”
I called the police. My voice trembled, but I forced the words out: “My stepmother is trying to force me out. I’m 38 weeks pregnant. Please, send someone.”
They arrived quickly, stopping Mike before he could touch anything. But I understood the truth — I couldn’t remain there. No job, no savings, no Ethan — I had nowhere left to turn.
I packed clumsily, hands shaking so badly I kept dropping clothes. The guest room looked like chaos had swept through it.
I ended up at a women’s shelter — drained, swollen, swallowing tears. As I dragged my torn suitcase across the floor, something slipped free — a thick manila envelope.
My heart clenched.
It was the envelope Dad had handed me a month earlier on the porch while we watched the sunset with tea.
“Em,” he’d said quietly, pressing it into my hands. “Don’t open this until I’m gone.”