Then He Got Sick
It happened so suddenly — just a few days of fatigue, and then he was gone.
I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t even get to say goodbye properly. One moment, he was sitting beside me reading a book, and the next, I was staring at his empty chair.
That’s when everything crumbled.
Not even two days after the funeral, Veronica showed her true self. I was still in pajamas, trying to eat toast through tears, when she walked into the kitchen in silk heels and red lipstick, like she was headed to a gala.
She didn’t bother to sit or ask how I was.
Instead, she said, “You need to start packing.”
Her voice was sharp and cold, cutting through my grief like it didn’t exist at all.
I blinked, confused.
“You have 36 hours,” she said, pouring herself a glass of wine. “This house is mine now. I don’t want you or your… babies here.”
I felt like the air got sucked out of the room.
“Veronica,” I whispered, “I’m due in two weeks. Where am I supposed to go?”
She shrugged, not even looking at me.
“Motel? Shelter? Not my problem.”
I stood up, gripping the counter for balance.
“Dad would never have allowed this.”
She turned and smiled, cold and perfect.
“Dad’s not here,” she said flatly. “I am.”
Before I could say another word, she pulled out her phone and dialed.
“Mike? Yeah. Come over. We’ve got a problem.”
That was the first time I heard about Mike, her boyfriend. Apparently, she’d been seeing him while Dad was in and out of the hospital.
He showed up within the hour. He was a big guy, overly tanned and smug, looking around like he already owned the place.
Veronica didn’t waste time.
“Break the door,” she told him calmly. “She doesn’t belong here.”
I called the police. My voice was shaking, but I got the words out:
“My stepmother is trying to force me out. I’m 38 weeks pregnant. Please, send someone.”
