“Stop. Stop it, please.” The words tore out of me, half-sob, half-command. My hands clamped over my ears, but it did nothing. My knees buckled as I stumbled down the hall, vision blurred, until the bathroom tiles caught me.
Cold seeped through my palms as I collapsed against the sink. My stomach lurched, heaving violently, but nothing came. Empty. Hollow. And then it hit me—I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I’d been too busy preparing for that party, too busy forcing a smile into place, too busy obeying Matthew’s warning not to “embarrass him again.”
Now my body trembled with nausea and exhaustion, and beneath it all, one thought rose sharp and undeniable: my children. The life inside me didn’t care that I was broken. They needed me to survive. They needed me to keep going.
I dragged myself into the kitchen, yanking open cabinets with trembling hands. Crackers, bread, anything—I shoved it into my mouth, chewing around the tears spilling down my face. The food felt like lead, heavy in my throat, but at least it dulled the gnawing panic that I was failing them, too.