My mother-in-law shoved a folder into my hands between the funeral wreaths—“Sign the house and car over to Lydia”—and when I refused, her husband slammed me into the wall like my grief didn’t count.

“I am his family,” I said.

Ray grabbed my arm and dragged me toward a side wall—out of the main traffic, but not far enough to stay invisible.

“You’ll sign,” he growled, low. “And that’s that.”

“Let go of me,” I whispered, panic rising—not for myself.

For the life inside me.

Ray shoved me hard into the wall. The impact knocked the breath out of me. Before I could steady myself, a slap snapped my head to the side and Paula’s nails dug into my wrist like she wanted pain to write the message for her.

“Now you’re really alone,” she spat. “Without him, you’re nobody.”

I tasted blood and swallowed it back like a promise.

Then I pulled out my phone.

PART 2 — “Do It.”
I didn’t shout. I didn’t bargain. I looked at Lydia—still smiling like this was her victory lap—and hit a contact I’d saved for exactly this kind of moment.