"If you don't like me, I'll go. Just—please don't hurt my child!" Patricia sobbed. Weston burst into the room.
"What happened?" he demanded.
"Brother-in-law," Patricia cried, "I only wanted to look at these clothes, but my sister said my baby was the reason for her miscarriage! She pushed me down!"
Weston's face darkened inch by inch. I said nothing; I only watched him, composed and cold.
"Denise," he said at last, tone hard, "I know you're hurting over your loss, but you cannot take it out on a pregnant woman. If this happens again—even though you are my wife—I won't indulge you."
He scooped Patricia up and left. As the door closed, she shot me a triumphant little smile.
She thought she had won. She didn't know how wrong she was.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
When the time came, I would make them pay a price they wouldn't forget.
In the days that followed, it was as if they were deliberately punishing me.
Everywhere I turned, I would "accidentally" stumble upon their moments of intimacy—Weston feeding Patricia tenderly, massaging her hands and swollen feet, or gently applying pregnancy oil to her growing belly.