Two newborn sleepers.
Lying in wet grass.
“Pick that up.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Pick up our daughter’s things.”
“I said no.”
Another contraction hit.
I closed my eyes and breathed through it.
When it passed, Daniel said the sentence I would remember for the rest of my life.
“You’ve become dead weight, Rebecca.”
I slowly straightened.
“I’m eight months pregnant.”
“And I’ve spent months feeling like I don’t even exist in my own marriage.”
“Then we discuss that after I get to a hospital.”
“No.”
He pointed toward the door.
“You leave tonight.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked:
“Are you seriously throwing me out while I’m in labor?”
Daniel looked directly into my eyes.
“Yes.”
That was the moment I stopped fighting for him.
I called my neighbor, Gloria Martinez.
Seventy-two years old.
Five feet two.
Widowed.
