But standing there bent over in pain while Thomas worried about presentation and his mother called me a servant, I suddenly didn’t care about pride.
I walked toward the pantry and answered.
‘Dad,’ I whispered.
One word.
That was all it took.
My father had heard me cry through school fevers, college heartbreaks, and the night I went into false labor at twenty-six weeks from stress.
He knew my voice the way some people know scripture.
‘Claire?’ he said, and his tone changed instantly.
‘What happened?’
I tried to say I was fine.
The next cramp stole my breath.
All he heard was a broken sound and my breathing turning ragged.
Behind me, heels clicked on the tile.
Margaret had followed me.
Before I could stop her, she snatched the phone from my hand.
‘Whoever this is,’ she snapped, ‘your daughter is being dramatic.
She married into this family, and tonight she will do what she’s told.
