The next second, she lunged toward my daughter, her hand reaching for the oxygen tube.
I sprang forward, shoving her away with all my strength. “No!” I screamed.
The tube was half-yanked from its place. Right then, the nurse rushed in as I shielded my child with my body.
Sherree thrashed wildly, shouting, “She’s just dead weight! I’ve never wanted to see her! Why can’t you forgive me? You’ve turned my brother against me!”
Her hand came up to strike me. I blocked it, but then her foot shot out, slamming into my belly.
The force knocked me backward. I crashed into the monitor.
Pain ripped through my lower abdomen, and I felt the sudden, terrifying rush of warm blood.
I looked down. A scarlet stain spread across my gown.
“Doctor! Nurse! Hurry! She’s pregnant!”
I heard the nurse’s shout and saw Payton’s face drain of color.
I clutched my belly, the world spinning violently around me.
When I woke up again, a nurse stood at my side.
“Your daughter’s condition has stabilized,” she said softly. “But… your baby… I’m sorry.”
I laughed then until tears streamed down my face.
A month ago, it was because of this child that I softened and returned to Payton.