Dad, on the other hand, cherished having me there. He sat beside my bed, massaged my swollen feet, and reminisced about when I was a baby. He surprised me with little comforts — a plush pillow, herbal teas, 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 — just a few days of fatigue, and then he was gone. One day he was reading beside me, and the next, I was staring at his empty chair.
I never got to say 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 against the floor. 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 herself 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 gripped the counter, forcing myself upright. “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. He swaggered in an hour later, tanned and arrogant, 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.”
