Beside her, my sister Lena leaned casually against the doorway, a glass of wine in her hand, smiling as if cruelty amused her.
“Serves you right,” she added. “Disgusting.”
For a split second, everything narrowed—the pounding rain, my baby’s desperate cries, the sharp taste of rage rising in my throat.
Then instinct took over.
I yanked him out of the straps, wrapped him tightly in my coat, and pressed his cold, wet head against my neck.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, even though my hands were trembling. “Mommy’s here.”
“You should be thanking us,” my mother snapped. “Maybe now you’ll learn some shame.”
I looked at her—really looked.
Her makeup was flawless. Her hair untouched by the rain. Lena’s polished nails gleamed under the light. This wasn’t careless.
