My heart plummeted. The pain in my chest felt like something being carved out of me with a dull blade. I wiped my tears, forced air into my burning lungs, and threw the door open.
"What the hell did you just say, Mom?" I was shaking. "Agatha made me lose my baby on purpose? And you helped her do it?"
I screamed it. In my fury, I hurled the miscarriage report straight at her face, demanding to know why not one of them had asked me a single question about losing my child.
"Who is your real daughter here?" I roared.
"I already apologized, sis." Agatha's voice was soft, her expression the picture of innocence. "If you're angry, take it out on me. Don't yell at Mom."
The sight of that rehearsed, doe-eyed look made bile rise in my throat. I snatched the bowl of tapioca pudding and upended it over her head, then smashed the bowl on the floor.
She yelped and hopped around as the warm liquid ran down her scalp, screaming that I was insane. My mother joined in, calling me a lunatic, shooting me a look of pure disgust before dragging Agatha to the bathroom to clean up.