She’d stroll into our room and tell Derek, “When she’s gone, we’ll make this blue. A real boy’s room.”
If I cried, Derek sneered: “Maybe all that estrogen made you weak.”
I cried in the shower. Whispered to my belly, “I’m trying. I’m sorry.”
The only person who didn’t throw jabs was Michael, my FIL. He wasn’t warm, but he was decent. He carried groceries, asked my girls about school, listened.
He saw more than he said.
Then one day, everything snapped.
Michael had left early for a long shift. By mid-morning, the house felt unsafe.
I was folding laundry. The girls were playing with dolls. Derek was on the couch scrolling.
Patricia walked in carrying black trash bags.
My stomach dropped.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She smiled. “Helping you.”
She marched into our room, yanked open my dresser drawers, and started shoving everything into the bags. Shirts, underwear, pajamas. No folding. Just grabbing.
“Stop,” I said. “Those are my things.”
