At first it meant don’t take her seriously.
Then it meant don’t challenge her.
Eventually it meant endure whatever she does because confronting her is harder for me than watching it happen to you.
I looked at him.
“So maybe you should live here with her.”
Silence.
Ryan froze.
Diane’s face changed instantly.
That sentence finally frightened them.
“What did you say?” Ryan asked.
“I said if everything in this house is supposed to revolve around what your mother wants, maybe she should be the one living here with you.”
“Take it back.”
I almost didn’t recognize him.
“What?”
“Take it back.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“Claire.”
“No.”
His voice dropped.
“Apologize. To my mother.”
Our daughter shifted beneath my ribs.
I covered my stomach with one hand.
“No.”
Diane moved before I understood what she intended.
One second she stood beside the table.
The next she was in front of me.
Her hand rose.
Her palm struck the left side of my face.
The sound was unbelievably loud.
Sharp.
Flat.
Final.
My head turned with the force of it.
For a second, the entire kitchen seemed to disappear.
I heard the refrigerator humming.
A car passed outside.
Somewhere a faucet dripped.
My cheek burned.
I touched it.
I looked at Diane first.
Her chest rose and fell quickly.
She looked shocked by what she had done.
Then I turned to my husband.
I expected horror.
I expected him to grab his mother.
I expected him to ask whether I was okay.
I expected something.
Anything.
Instead, Ryan looked irritated.
“See what you do?” he said.
I stared at him.
“What?”
“If you had just apologized—”
“Your mother hit me.”
“Because you keep pushing.”
I looked from him to Diane.
Neither of them seemed to understand why I was staring.
That was the moment something inside me broke.
Not dramatically.
There was no sudden burst of courage.
No music.
No revelation from the heavens.
It was quieter than that.
A thread snapped.
The thread connecting me to every excuse I had made for Ryan.
My feet moved before I consciously decided where I was going.
My purse was on the small console table near the hall.
My phone was inside.
Ryan stepped in front of me.
“We’re finishing this conversation.”
“Move.”
“Not until you calm down.”
“Move.”
“Claire—”
“I said move.”
I tried to go around him.
His hand closed around my upper arm.
Hard.
Pain shot beneath his fingers.
“Let go of me.”
“Stop acting like this.”
“You’re hurting me.”
I pulled away.
His grip tightened.
“Ryan.”
Diane stepped closer.
“Both of you need to stop being dramatic.”
I looked at her.
“Tell him to let me go.”
“He barely has you.”
“I said let me go!”
I twisted.
Ryan shoved me.
It wasn’t a massive movement.
That was what he would say later.
That he barely pushed.
That I stumbled.
That it happened too fast.
But I knew what I felt.
His hand released my arm with force behind it.
My body moved backward.
My lower back slammed into the edge of the kitchen counter.
Pain tore through me.
A white flash exploded behind my eyes.
Both hands flew to my stomach.
I gasped.
Ryan’s face changed.
For half a second, I saw fear.
Then he covered it.
“You backed into it.”
I couldn’t answer.
I was waiting.
Waiting for the movement beneath my ribs.
Nothing.
“Baby,” I whispered.
I rubbed my stomach.
“Come on.”
Nothing.
Ryan took one step toward me.
I flinched.
He stopped.
“I barely touched you.”
“Don’t.”
“Claire—”
“Don’t come near me.”
Diane rolled her eyes.
“Babies sleep.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“She was probably already asleep.”
“You hit me.”
“And you were screaming.”
“You hit me while I’m eight months pregnant.”
“You were out of control.”
I stared at the two people standing in my kitchen.
My husband.
His mother.
People who had spent months telling me how much they loved this baby.
People who criticized my coffee, my sleep, my stroller and my doctor because everything I did apparently affected the baby.
Now my daughter had stopped moving after Ryan shoved me into a counter, and somehow neither of them looked as afraid as I was.
My eyes landed on the glass of water beside me.
I picked it up.
Before Diane could react, I threw the water into her face.
She screamed.
Ryan moved toward me.
I reacted.
My palm struck his cheek.
The sound was smaller than Diane’s slap had been.
Ryan stopped.
He touched his face.
His expression was pure disbelief.
“You hit me.”
“You shoved me into a counter.”
“I was trying to stop you from leaving.”
“That’s not better.”
“You just assaulted me.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I reached for my purse.
Ryan started forward again.
