As she spoke, she flicked her wrist and threw the last tiny piece of fabric into the fire.
"No!"
I lunged forward, shoving my hand into the flames, desperate to save what I could. By the time I pulled back, all that remained was a charred scrap of fabric.
After losing my child, those little clothes were all I had left.
Every night, I slept with them beside my pillow. Now, even that last thread of comfort was gone.
I clutched the scorched cloth to my chest, tears falling heavily onto the ashes.
"Sister, what's wrong? I only did this for your own good," Patricia said, stroking her belly with mock innocence, though pride glimmered behind her eyes.
Her false sweetness made my blood boil. My hand moved before I could think—slap!
"You... you dare hit me?" she gasped, disbelief etched across her face—then, suddenly, she laughed.
"So you've found out, haven't you?" she hissed. "You know how all your children died?"
Her voice was low, venomous. She seized my burned hand and squeezed until pain shot through my fingers.
"It's not enough, Denise. You've lost too little." Her voice was venomous, her eyes twisted with hatred. "I'll make sure you lose everything."