PART 1 — THE PORCH
Three weeks after my mother died in a highway accident outside Syracuse,
I was standing in the kitchen she had loved, eight months pregnant,
while my husband told me I no longer belonged there.
Charles Mercer dropped a folder onto the table.
Beside him stood Courtney Lane, twenty-four years old and wearing one of
his shirts beneath an expensive coat.
“You’re leaving,” Charles said. “Your mother left debts. We have to sell
the house.”
“There is no we. Mom transferred this house to me two years ago.”
Courtney smirked.
Charles pushed the folder toward me. “Sign.”
[“No.”]
I stood carefully, one hand beneath my stomach.
“Take her and get out of my house.”
His expression changed.
He seized my arm.
When I pulled away, his hand caught my hair.
“Charles, stop!”
He dragged me toward the front door while I wrapped both arms around my
stomach.
Courtney followed.
Laughing.
Charles shoved me onto the porch.
I twisted before landing and struck one knee hard enough to tear the
[skin.]
Then warmth rushed down my legs.
“My water broke.”
For one heartbeat Courtney looked shocked.
Then she laughed again.
Charles tossed my handbag outside.
“Call whoever you want.”
